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JULIE DE LESPINASSE 




•7'ul/e - J/ea/nie -Oico-no/^e oe Ae<j/.>t^nrt.j<je. 

/ ?-> :^ - / 7 /Y/ 



Julie de Lespinasse 
By the Marquis de Segur 
Translated from the 
French by P. H. Lee 
Warner 




New York 

Henry Holt and Company 

1907 






Printed by 

Ballantyne, Hanson 5s= Co. 

Edinburgh 



^y/S 



INTRODUCTION 

One summer afternoon in the year 1811 Madame 
de Stael was returning from an excursion down 
the Chambery valley, when the failing conversation 
of her party drifted to a recent book of which the 
reputation was already in the ascendant. Talk 
suddenly became animated. Madame de Stael 
was the first to take fire, and her brilliant words 
held all hearers by their charm. A storm broke 
over the carriage, but neither for wind, hail, nor 
lightning had any of its occupants attention to 
spare. One subject possessed every sense — the 
volume of Letters of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
which the widow of Count Guibert had given 
to the world a few months earlier. 

The anecdote may serve in some degree to 
indicate the profound interest excited in the 
literary world, almost from the moment of their 
first publication, by pages that revived, as it were 
gave a second life to, the soul of a woman dead 
these thirty years and whose name was scarcely 
known to the new generation. Little less than a 
complete century has since passed, but the accents 
of this voice from the grave are still to be heard. 



vi INTRODUCTION 

Like Madame de Stael and her fellow-travellers, 
we feel our hearts beat in response to the tumults 
of this heart ; we experience the sad charm of these 
burning lines, the very disorder and contradictions 
in which so convincingly reflect their passionate 
origin that one may apply to them the words of 
Lamartine, well used of the letters of another Julie, 
where, in his " Raphael," he says : Her very breath 
was in the words, her eyes glanced tip from the lines; 
one felt through the phrases the living warmth of the 
lips from which they had just fallen} 

By these artless letters, with their unstudied 
style, — frequently, indeed, lacking any style in the 
grammatical sense of that term,— the spontaneous 
overflow from the deeps of her soul, and so little in- 
tended for alien eyes that she particularly enjoined 
their destruction, Julie de Lespinasse has found her 
unexpected place in the history of literature. Suc- 
cessive editions confirm the lasting interest of this 
correspondence, yet all follow the text as origin- 
ally printed by Madame de Guibert, incomplete, 
abridged, and full of suppressions as it is, if only 
because of the reticence natural in a woman to 
whose husband the originals were addressed. 

The personality of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
has excited a similar curiosity in the wider public, 
and various biographers have described her appear- 
ance, outlined her character, and traced the prin- 
cipal events of her romantic career. Their works 

^ Julie des Herettes, immortalised by the poet as Elvira. 



INTRODUCTION vii 

have, in a word, popularised a portrait of which, 
if it be possible, the attractions are enhanced, 
in that it may be taken as representative of an 
epoch, a symbol of the revolution accomplished in 
contemporary thought during the period of Julie's 
life — the change of the age of reason into the age 
of passion and sentimental licence. 

But notwithstanding the undoubted interest of 
some of these volumes, no single one has failed to 
impress me by the extensive intermissions and 
the numerous obscurities to be encountered by all 
who would study the history of Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse. Her birth, youth, and education ; that 
first passion, which, as she herself testifies, exercised 
so decisive an influence on her life, — all remain 
vague, enveloped in mists, frequently buried in 
impenetrable obscurity. The very episode of her 
passion for Guibert and the connection between the 
pair — the essential subject of the published Letters 
— can be followed only in the most imperfect and 
summary manner. We can see her blind adora- 
tion for "the great man," the adored of contem- 
porary society ; learn how cruelly she suffered from 
his coldness and infidelities ; watch her fall a prey 
to disillusionment and despair after but a few years. 
But the real lights to be gained upon the circum- 
stances of this love-story, or its successive phases, 
are rare, and it does not need much study to per- 
ceive that the several accounts of the few indubit- 
able landmarks frequently differ in detail. 



viii INTRODUCTION 

A happy accident first afforded me most pre- 
cious light upon this last crisis in the history of 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, when I learned that 
the rich family archives of Guibert's descendants 
contained the originals of the famous letters. Count 
de Villeneuve-Guibert opened this door to me with 
a courtesy which I can never sufficiently acknow- 
ledge. Himself appreciating the value of his in- 
heritance as well as any one, the Count allowed me 
to read the very sheets penned by Julie, without 
alteration or suppression. Here, also, are nume- 
rous other letters, pages of a livelier or more inti- 
mate tone, withheld from publication when the rest 
were printed for reasons then of sufficient weight, 
although now without a claim to consideration. 
The sheets overflow with nervous life and gain 
additional interest from the considerable packet of 
Guibert's replies which accompanies them. They 
afford us an almost uninterrupted view of the 
most secret motions of a sincere and exalted soul. 
These priceless documents, the first as the most 
substantial reward of my curiosity, encouraged me 
to further research. I am happy to be able to 
announce their imminent publication under the 
supervision of their enlightened owner. 

My next effort was to elucidate the remaining 
obscurities in this story of many troubles, and 
evidence was not long in arising from the dust of 
ancient archives with a lavishness exceeding my 
most ardent hopes. The birth, education, and 



INTRODUCTION ix 

intimate existence of Julie were displayed in 
letters exchanged with one of her brothers, no less 
than in notes, letters, and the manuscript journals 
of certain of her relatives — hitherto unprinted docu- 
ments which I consulted in the library of the town 
of Roanne, or among the family papers of the 
Marquis de Vichy and the Marquis d'Albon, virgin 
riches put at my disposal with a liberality and 
kindliness beyond measure. Other side-lights on 
the sam.e early period I have gained from the 
memoirs and intimate papers of Madame de la 
Ferte Imbault, for permission to draw on which I 
am once again indebted to the Marquis d'Estampes. 

A like good fortune followed my efforts to un- 
ravel the mystery hitherto veiling Julie's first love 
and her relations with the Marquis de Mora. 
Thanks to the kindly offices of the Marquis 
d'Alcedo, I obtained communication of documents 
from the muniment-room of the house of Villa- 
Hermosa, which define the hitherto shadowy per- 
sonality of the man who played his part in this 
touching episode. 

Finally, in respect of the friends and familiars 
of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, her salon, and 
the public and more worldly side of her character, 
Mademoiselle Valentine Stapfer hospitably made 
me free of the rich archives preserved in her 
chateau at Talcy ; while I owe similar acknowledg- 
ments to Monsieur Charles Henry, discoverer and 
printer of the " Unpublished Letters." Numerous 



X INTRODUCTION 

works, especially on David Hume, consulted in 
the Library of the British Museum, complete the 
list of original sources on which I have drawn 
to any great extent. 

Before, now, proceeding to my work, I would 
only thank the many friends who have aided me 
with their encouragement and advice. To all of 
these I hereby tender sincere thanks, particularly 
to Monsieur Gaston Boissier, Count de Rocham- 
beau, and Monsieur Joseph Dechelette. 



CONTENTS 



1 PAGE 

iNTRODUCTfQN V 



CHAPTER I 

Master Basiliac's client — Birth of Julie de Lespinasse — 
Her father — Early years at the Chateau d'Avauges — 
Maternal distress of the Countess d'Albon — Her death — 
Julie at the Chateau de Champrond — Her younger brother, 
Abel de Vichy — Family scenes and quarrels — Julie desires 
to take the veil — Madame du Deffand 



CHAPTER H 

The Marquise du Deffand — Three periods in her life— State 
of her mind on arrival at Champrond — Rapid intimacy 
with Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Spiritual and physical 
portrait of Julie in her twentieth year — First project of 
living with Madame du Deffand — Julie leaves the Vichys 
— Period of her stay at Lyons — Complicated negotiations 
with Madame du Deffand — Opposition of Count d'Albon — 
Julie decides to live in Paris 33 



CHAPTER HI 

The Convent of Saint Joseph — Intimate life of the Marquise 
du Deffand — Influence of the new life on Julie — Her 
first friends — The Marechale de Luxembourg — Prepon- 
derant influence of Madame du Deffand on the intellectual 
formation of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Similarity in 
character and spirit — The honeymoon of their alliance — 
Good feelings endangered by instinctive coquetry of Julie 
— Her first conquests : the Chevaher d'Aydie and President 
Henault — Her first romance: Viscount de Taafe — Prudent 
intervention of Madame du Deffand — Her moderation 
throughout 66 



xii CONTENTS 



CHAPTER IV 

■ PAGE 

Youth of d'Alembert — His daily intimacy with Madame du 
Defifand — His character, and relations with women — First 
meeting of d'Alembert and Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — 
His tender feeling for her— Madame du Deffand feels 
injured — Her changed attitude towards Julie — Similar 
resentment against d'Alembert — Comedy of 77/^? Philo- 
sophers and consequent quarrel — Journey of d'Alembert 
to Prussia — His letters to Julie— Last episodes in his 
friendship with Madame du Deffand — Clandestine "first 
receptions" in Julie's apartment — Discovery by the 
Marquise — Violent scene between the two — Their definite 
separation — d'Alembert bids farewell to the salon at Saint 
Joseph's — Despair and constant hatred of Madame du 
Deffand 93 



CHAPTER V 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse opens house in the Rue Saint Domi- 
nique — Her lodging — Her financial resources — Attacked 
by small-pox — d'Alembert contracts the disease — He enters 
Julie's house — Their common life — Period of calm and 
happiness — Their intimacy with Madame Geoffrin — Con- 
sequent gain to Julie — Mademoiselle de Lespinasse forms 
the project of a salon — Her immediate success, and mar- 
vellous tact in the part — Special character of the salon of 
Rue Saint Dominique — Her influence with her friends — 
Influence of the new circle on the literary world and the 
Academy I2{ 



CHAPTER VI 

Friendships of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Condorcet — His 
entire devotion to Julie — He defei's to her advice— ^She 
plays the part of reason against love in his regard — Suard 
— Julie secures his election to the Academy — Her affection 
for, and testimonial to her confidence in him — The 
Chevalier de Chastellux — Dissimilarity between his char- 
acter and that of Julie — Her vexation at this, but her 
just appreciation of his merits — Her great services to 
him — Women in the salon of Rue Saint Dominique — 
Countess de Boufiflers — Madame de Marchais — Jealousy 
of Julie on their account— The Duchesse de Chitillon— She 
wins Julie's heart 156 



CONTENTS xiii 



CHAPTER VII 



The foreign colony in Paris in the eighteenth century— Success 
of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse with these birds of passage — 
David Hume — Incredible public infatuation for this man — 
He haunts Julie's saloji — She intervenes in the quarrel 
between Hume and J. J. Rousseau — She presides at the 
conference which dictates Hume's line of conduct — Conse- 
quent dissensions in the Encyclopccdist camp — Espitolary 
war between d'Alembert, Rousseau, Walpole, Voltaire, and 
others — Generous conduct of Hume — Other foreign friends 
of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse : the Marquis Carracioli, 
Abbe Galiani, Lord Shelburne — Intimacy of Julie with the 
latter — She professes admiration for his statesmanship . . 184 



CHAPTER VIII 



Mademoiselle de Lespinasse and politics — Curious mixture of 
utopianism and pessimism — Her feeling for Turgot — Julie's 
ideas and tastes in music and literature — Her intimate life 
— Her horror of all change — Relations with her family — 
Regular correspondence with Abel de Vichy — She plays 
the mother to her brother — Her wise advice to him — Her 
sad confidences to him in respect of her poverty — Growing 
discouragement of her last years ...... 214 



CHAPTER IX 

Love in the latter half of the eighteenth century — Revolutionary 
influence on feminine ideas of the works of J. J. Rousseau 
and Richardson — Mademoiselle de Lespinasse is the most 
illustrious victim of the romantic infection — The Fuentes 
family — Birth and education of the Marquis de Mora — 
His marriage— His father-in-law. Count d'Aranda — Death 
of the Marquise de Mora — The Marquis comes to Paris — 
Reputation of the family — His personal success in the literary 
and social salons — First meeting with Julie — His instant 
attraction for her — He leaves Paris directly afterwards — 
His triumphant reception in Madrid society — His essays in 
literature— Relations with the Duchesse de Huescar — 
Sudden death of Mora's son — He returns to Paris . . 234 



xiv CONTENTS 



CHAPTER X 

PAGE 

Changed opinions of Mora — His ill-health and discouragement 
— Similar ailments of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Violent 
outburst of mutual passion — Initial excitement of both — 
Mora visits Ferney, and is warmly received by Voltaire on 
d'Alembert's introduction — Return to Paris and resumption 
of the romance — Platonic character of the connection — 
Projected marriage with Julie — Mora, recalled to the 
Spanish army, hands in his papers, but is taken seriously 
ill and sent to Valentia — Violent excitement of Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse — Consequent disappointment of 
d'Alembert — He travels for two months — Sudden return 
of Mora to Paris — Renewed passion, and relapse of Mora 
— His father insists on his leaving France — Painful parting 
of the lovers 257 



CHAPTER XI 

Fete at Moulin-Joli — Count Guibert — His high repute at this 
time — Popularity with women — Madame de Montsauge — 
Guibert impresses Julie — Her long illusion on the nature of 
his feelings for her — His German tour — Increasing passion 
of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Her remorse on account 
of Mora — Bad news from the latter — Correspondence 
between d'Alembert and the Duke of Villa Hermosa — 
Cruel agitation of Julie — She confesses her love to Guibert 
— His response — Growing jealousy on account of Madame 
de Montsauge — Illness of Guibert — Julie's anxiety — 
Guibert at last announces his return ..... 287 



CHAPTER Xn 

Guibert returns to Paris — Julie's passionate outburst — Guibert 
breaks with Madame de Montsauge — Soiree of February 
10, 1774— Tragic coincidence — First excitement after 
the fact — Julie closes her salon — First disillusionment — 
Jealous suspicions on meeting Madame de BoufBers and 
Madame de Montsauge — Scenes between the lovers — 
Julie's despair at her own weakness— Serious relapse of 
the Marquis de Mora — d'Alembert's attempts to bring him 
back to Paris— Mora's secret doubt of Julie's faithfulness 
— He sets out to rejoin her — Accident consequent on 
fatigue of the journey — Final letter to Julie— His death — 
Julie's anguish and attempt to commit suicide — Persistent 
remorse — Her letters to the dead man — Surprising patience 
of Guibert .... ..... 318 



CONTENTS XV 



CHAPTER XIII 

PAGE 

Shaken health of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Consequent ill- 
temper— Guibert's tactlessness — His mysterious absence — 
Irritation of Julie and first threats of a rupture between 
them — Secret interview of Guibert with Madame de Mont- 
sauge — Jealous fury of Julie on discovering this — Her 
withering letter — Breach of several months' duration — 
Reconciliation, but persistent vexation — Guibert's literary 
ambitions — Wise counsel from Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
— The Constable is staged — Julie consoles him for his dis- 
appointment — Guibert's projected marriage — Julie believes 
the scheme abandoned — Unexpected avowal by Guibert — 
YWs Jiaricee, Mademoiselle de Courcelles — Julie's despair — 
Scenes prior to the marriage— Departure of Guibert — The 
broken ring , 342 



CHAPTER XIV 

Complicated feelings of Guibert on his marriage — Charming 
qualities of his wife — Promise of a married idyll — Despair 
and indignation of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Vain 
attempts to divert her mind — Bitter reproaches to the 
traitor — Agonised crisis and reaction towards a more 
quiet mind — She swears their connection shall now be 
platonic — Heroic resistance to Guibert's pleas — Death 
now her one desire — Her strength fails and she neglects 
herself — Her friends completely ignorant of the cause of 
trouble — Incredible blindness of d'Alembert — His vexation 
at her refusal of his efforts — Her sweetness and his 
devotion — Julie's health fails further, but her passion is 
undiminished — Sincere grief and tender protestations of 
Guibert — Sad letters of the lovers — Abel de Vichy arrives 
— Agony of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Her last letter 
to Guibert — Her death — d'Alembert discovers Julie's 
passion for Mora — His indignation and despair — He con- 
fides in Guibert — Melancholy resignation of his last years . 373 



PRINCIPAL NEW AUTHORITIES CONSULTED 

Private Archives. — Archivesof Count Villeneuve-Guibert ; 
the Marquis de Vichy ; the Marquis d'Albon ; documents in 
the archives of the house of Villa-Hermosa ; Archives of 
the Marquis d'Estampes ; Chateau de Talcy ; Count de 
Rochambeau (former Collection Minoret). 

Ptiblic Archives. — MSS. in the library at Roanne ; MSS. 
in the Bibliotheque Nationale ;"MunicipaI and Departmental 
archives at Lyons ; Departmental Archives of Macon ; MSS. 
in the Library of the British Museum, and elsewhere. 



JULIE DE LESPINASSE 



CHAPTER I 

Master Basiliac's client — Birth of Julie de Lespinasse — Her father — Early 
years at the Chateau d'Avauges — Maternal distress of the Countess 
d'Albon— Her death — ^Julie at the Chateau de Champrond — Her younger 
brother, Abel de Vichy — Family scenes and quarrels — ^Julie desires to 
take the veil — Madame du Deffand. 

In the heart of the city of Lyons, and fronting the 
quays which Hne the right bank of the Saone, rise 
the great buildings of a picture gallery. Originally 
known by the name of Grand Custom- House Place, 
the space thus filled was up to quite recent times 
the site of the old Custom House. Here, about 
the year 1730, master Louis Basiliac, "official 
surgeon to the Marshal," occupied a modest tene- 
ment with his wife, dame Madeleine Ganivet, 
a professional midwife. The quarter was un- 
fashionable, and the neighbours were almost exclu- 
sively of the lower middle and artisan classes, but 
known honesty and a lengthy practice seem to have 
gained the surgeon a considerable local reputation. 

To this discreet house and respectable couple 
there came a client one November evening in the 
year 1732. A face of refined sweetness, extreme 
youth and beauty, no less than a style of dress, 

A 



2 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

manners, and speech very different from those of 
the Basiliacs' usual patrons, conspired to surround 
the visitor with an air of tantalising mystery. The 
newcomer left her hosts little time for speculation, 
since already on the 9th of the month she was 
delivered of a girl child, more frail and of less size 
than usual, but perfectly sound and of the liveliest 
disposition. She was baptized next day in the 
neighbouring church of Saint Paul, Basiliac and 
his wife standing godfather and godmother. The 
names of two other witnesses are unknown. The 
entry in the Register, from the hand of Rector 
Ambrose himself, may be printed here in full, since 
no correct transcription has yet been published. 

" This loth of November 1732 was baptized Julie Jeanne 
Eleonore de Lespinasse, born yesterday, legitimate daughter 
of Claude Lespinasse, burgher of Lion, and of dame Julie 
Navarre his wife. Godfather, master Louis Basiliac, 
licensed surgeon of Lyon ; godmother, dame Madeleine 
Ganivet, wife of said Basiliac, vice dame Julie Lechot 
absent. Lacking the father's signature through absence, 
two witnesses attest with their signatures in addition to 
those of godfather and godmother. In witness whereof 

"BASILIAC— AMBROSE, Rector.'' 

At a later date, in a different ink, an unknown 
hand has inserted z*/ before "legitimate," while the 
words his wife are ruled out, and the margin is 
marked with a cross, the particular sign used in 
this register to denote the issue of irregular unions. 

Claude I'Espinasse and Julie Navarre, the 
parents assigned, are purely fictitious personages 
of whom no trace has ever existed in the 



BIRTH OF JULIE 3 

city registers. Claude and Julie are, however, the 
Christian names of a certain great lady, at that time 
an object of universal attention among the scandal- 
mongers of Lyons. The name of I'Espinasse is, 
further, that of an estate brought into the d'Albon 
family during the fifteenth century by the marriage 
of ^ Alix de I'Espinasse with William d'Albon, 
seigneur de Saint- Forgeux. Master Basiliac's 
client was, thus, at little pains to disguise her 
identity when she caused the doctor to register 
her daughter's baptism in this fashion. 

Few will be ignorant of the antiquity and fame 
of the house of d'Albon. From the twelfth century 
onwards its members give frequent governors to 
Dauphiny, while its power and wealth were such 
that one of its chroniclers can record how there 
was once a question " whether its lands should not 
be constituted a kingdom, since indeed they are as 
a kingdom in size." Among the many scions of 
this warlike house, who have left their name in our 
history,^ Marshal Saint-Andre, a hero of the re- 
ligious wars, killed gloriously at the battle of Dreux, 
is undoubtedly the most famous. 

In the opening years of the eighteenth century 
the house was divided into two branches, the Counts 
of Saint-Marcel and the Marquisses of Saint- 
Forgeux, either being represented by an only child 
— Claude d'Albon, Count of Saint- Marcel, born at 

^ Contemporary Memoirs and legal documents make no attempt 
at a uniform spelling of the name. I'Espinasse, de Lespinasse, and 
even Lespinasse, with no prefix, are found together. I have, through- 
out, adopted Julie's own autograph of de Lespinasse. 

^ Jacques d'Albon, Marshal Saint-Andre, 1 524-1 562. 



4 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Roanne on June 25, 1687, and Julie Claude Hilaire 
d'Albon, born at Lyons on July 28, 1695. This girl, 
motherless from the age of three, and thenceforward 
cared for only by a father whose life appears to have 
been most unedifying, rightly passed for one of the 
richest heiresses in the country, being heir-pre- 
sumptive through her father to the Marquisate of 
Saint-Forgeux, while from her mother she inherited 
the principality of Yvetot. She already bore this 
last title, and since the revenues attached formed 
a considerable dowry in themselves one can easily 
conceive that both branches of the family joined 
hands in the common hope of uniting such fair 
estates in the person of a d'Albon, Questions of 
compatibility or choice, on the part of those princi- 
pally concerned, presented no problem to parents of 
that period. The idea of a marriage between the 
cousins was carried out as soon as conceived. The 
Archbishop of Lyons gave the necessary dispen- 
sation ; the contract was signed at the Chateau 
d'Avauges on February 10, 171 1, and a few 
weeks later saw the marriage solemnised at Lyons. 
Julie d'Albon was sixteen when her future 
was thus arranged. An interesting portrait in the 
Chateau d'Avauges, painted a few years later, 
shows us a young woman of slight but active figure, 
with an oval face of refined features, and light 
brown hair. The black eyes, of a softly languish- 
ing aspect, impart a dreamy quality to the entire 
face. A certain length in the n(^e mars features 
otherwise beautiful in a regular style, but the 
dominant impression to be derived from this por- 



COUNTESS D'ALBON 5 

trait is that of extreme sweetness ; its melancholy, 
in the language of that day its "touching," expres- 
sion suggests a spirit already resigned to the 
troubles that the future is to bring. 

The early years of this marriage, even if im- 
perfectly happy, were none the less free of any 
disaster. Several children prove the reality of 
the married tie ; a daughter, Marie Camille Diane, 
was born in 17 16. Two others died in infancy. 
Finally, on November 11, 1724, came the son, 
Camille Alix Eleonor Marie, whose birth, long and 
impatiently awaited, was to assure the perpetuity 
of the race. But from this moment trouble begins, 
and does not end until all community of existence 
concludes in a definite separation. 

No effort has yet succeeded in illuminating the 
obscurity which clings alike to the causes and cir- 
cumstances of this separation. It may, however, 
be inferred that the first fault lay with the man, and 
that his fault was grave. That guardianship of the 
two children was, from the first, entrusted to the 
Countess d'Albon seems eloquent proof of this 
supposition, no less than the fact that she kept 
them with her to the day of her death. Whatever 
her later conduct may have been, and it was surely 
such as would have justified protest by the count, 
the latter never raised an objection or criticism. 
He established himself in the town of Roanne, 
dying there in 1771, after an obscure and retired 
existence. Th( silence of this retirement was 
broken by no effort on his part, nor did he ever 
attempt to assert a claim on the life of his family. 



6 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

The Countess d'Albon, meanwhile, continued to 
reside on her estates, more generally at the 
Chateau d'Avauges, sometimes in her house at 
Lyons. Quasi-widowed at the age of thirty, beau- 
tiful, sensitive, and of the romantic disposition 
clearly indicated by what little we know of her, it 
was easy to prophesy that her heart would find 
some kind of distraction. Nor was the event long 
delayed, for she presently conceived an attachment 
no less serious and lasting than it was almost 
publicly avowed, as was the custom of the day. 
The period is, indeed, one in which the majority 
of her sex found virtue to consist in the possession 
of no more than one lover at a time, and morality 
in faithfulness to him. A species of handbook for 
women, or a guide to the conscience, written by 
one of them at about this date, contains these 
ingenuous lines : "If our lady have a lover is not 
the question, but ' who is the lover ? ' " A woman's 
reputation hangs on the reply to this. Dishonour, 
to-day, may lie " in the object, but never in the 
attachment." A passage in Bachaumont's memoirs 
is even more original. Calmly debating the proba- 
bilities in respect of his own paternity, he decides 
in favour of a cousin, a particular friend of his 
mother, on the ground that a close physical re- 
semblance is seldom fortuitous. But, whatever the 
real facts, and however erroneous contemporary 
gossip, local scandal never hesitated to couple the 
names of Madame d'Albon and a certain man. 
Madame du Deffand categorically asserts that "no 
one is ignorant " of this romance. 



JULIE'S FATHER 7 

Julie de Lespinasse was, as already detailed, 
the child of this attachment, but she was neither 
the only one nor the first. On June 14, 1731, 
Madame d'Albon became the mother of a son who, 
at his baptism in the parish of Saint-Nizier at 
Lyons, received her own first name of Hilaire, and 
was registered as "son of John Hubert, merchant, 
and of Catherine Blando." The child has no 
place in this chronicle. Reared secretly in some 
unknown monastery within the city, on April 13, 
1750, being then eighteen, this lad followed his 
mother's express desire, and assumed the habit of 
a novice in the Franciscan Convent of Saint Bona- 
venture. His mother's efforts having secured him 
a portion of several thousands of pounds, he took 
the vows next year, and, although no evidence is 
forthcoming in either sense, it seems probable that 
he lived his life out in the peaceful oblivion of the 
cloisters. Hilaire was twenty months old when 
this history opens with his sister's birth in the 
house of master Basiliac. 

The paternity of these children is a delicate 
question which has defied the efforts of all Julie's 
biographers. The absolute silence of contemporary 
writers of memoirs upon this point can only be set 
down to their equal ignorance. The name of 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse did not acquire noto- 
riety until the third of a century had overlaid the 
scandal, while the Countess d'Albon had been 
dead these twenty years. At the time of the 
intrigue, it was doubtless one of many subjects 
for local gossip ; it occurred in the provinces, and 



8 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

provincial scandals had not yet found ready access 
to Parisian ears. The persons interested were, 
moreover, eminently in a position to guard their 
own secrets. 

Bachaumont alone attempts to lift the veil. 
Immediately after Julie's death we find this bold 
announcement in his pages : " We now know that 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse was the illegitimate 
daughter of Cardinal de Tencin, just as d'Alembert 
is the bastard of Madame de Tencin — an identity 
in origin and species of origin which explains the 
later connection of the pair." It is unfortunate 
that so ingenuous an explanation commands no 
sort of credence. The cardinal was fifty-two years 
old at the date of Julie's birth, an age which dis- 
poses of the story when the state of his health at 
the time is also remembered. His then residence 
was a hundred miles from Lyons, and not until 
ten years later did he remove to that city, while, 
as Archbishop of Embrun, his energies were so 
entirely absorbed by a struggle with his suffragan, 
Soanen, Bishop of Senez, a main pillar of Jan- 
senism, that he certainly could not have found 
leisure for such intrigues. Finally, the letters of 
Madame du Deffand, since published, contain a 
sufficient refutation of the legend. " The Cardinal 
de Tencin," she writes, while speaking of Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse, " met her when on a recent 
visit to me, and at once asked me who she was. 
I found no difficulty in telling him under the seal 
of confidence." Bachaumont's statement is cer- 
tainly without further foundation than the two facts 



JULIE'S FATHER 9 

that d'Alembert and Julie occupied the same house, 
and were of like uncertain birth. While the world 
was thus free to imagine its own story, with every 
probability of never arriving at the truth, a fortu- 
nate chance turned my attention to an entirely new 
quarter, and if the hypothesis now advanced is in- 
capable of proof, it still wears every appearance of 
reality. 

A passage in my " Kingdom of the Rue Saint- 
Honore" dwelt upon the long and intimate friend- 
ship uniting Madame Geoffrin and Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse. Throughout the long period of 
some twelve years, the latter was little less than 
a member of the famous household in the Rue 
Saint-Honore, paying its aged mistress long daily 
visits, and finding in her the wisest counsellor, 
most generous protector, almost a second mother. 
If ever the younger woman confided in a human 
being, this discreet and sure friend received those 
confidences, and we can deem it nothing else than 
natural if Madame de la Ferte Imbault, Madame 
Geoffrin's daughter, has revealed the riddle of 
Julie's birth. The pages of the private diary, 
which this lady was nightly accustomed to fill with 
personal jottings and such interesting matters as 
chanced to have reached her during the past day, 
among many passages about her mother's friend 
contain these two : " She is the illegitimate 
daughter of the Countess d'Albon by Madame 
du Deffand's brother," and again, " Madame 
du Deffand's illegitimate niece." 

Madame du Deffand's maiden-name was Marie 



lo JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

de Vichy Champrond. Of her two known brothers, 
one, much younger than herself, forswore the world 
at an early age and died canon-treasurer of La 
Sainte Chapelle at Paris. The remaining brother, 
Gaspard III. de Vichy, born at Champrond in 1695, 
and his sister's senior by two years, is the only one 
to whom these notes can apply. 

The Counts of Vichy were a family of old and 
high nobility, long established in Forez and the 
Maconnais. Among the family's many excellent 
marriages, one of the most recent was an alliance 
with their neighbours, the d'Albons. By this mar- 
riage Hilaire d'Albon became the wife of Count 
Gaspard de Vichy, great-grandfather of Madame 
du Deffand and her brother. Such close relation- 
ship, and the proximity of their estates, naturally 
led to constant intercourse between the two families, 
and if Julie d'Albon and Gaspard de Vichy, cousins 
of like age and close neighbours, conceived a 
mutual liking, the fact need not surprise us. The 
one apparent objection to this hypothesis is capable 
of an equally natural solution. Gaspard, first com- 
missioned at the age of twenty, and employed in 
all the campaigns of the first half of Louis XV. 's 
reign, was certainly away from home during long 
periods. But the years 1727 and 1733, the period 
in which Julie's affairs came to a crisis, exactly 
correspond with an interval of peace during which 
the wanderer was at home, and had ample leisure 
for such an intrigue as that bluntly recorded by 
Madame de la Ferte Imbault. 

Even a double assertion of this kind by Madame 



GASPARD DE VICHY ii 

Geoffrin's daughter might be questioned, did not 
strong circumstantial evidence point to its accuracy. 
It would be hard to conceive a more natural ex- 
planation of the immediate and singular interest 
taken by Madame du Deffand in a young girl, 
thrown in her way by the chance of a brief resi- 
dence in the country. It accounts for the heat 
with which she overrides all opposition to taking 
her young friend to Paris, and the immediate place 
found by her in her protector's own household. It 
explains the zeal of this protector in discouraging 
all inquiry into the mystery of the girl's birth ; her 
rage and violent indignation, when she afterwards 
imagines herself betrayed, not by the stranger 
whom a common arrangement has brought to share 
her life, but a woman of her own blood for whom 
she has been at pains to contrive a home and a 
place in the family. I will not here anticipate the 
future further than to note the extraordinary re- 
semblance displayed in the character, tastes, and 
intellect of the pair, points of which there can be 
no explanation so natural as kinship, but pass to 
the evidence afforded by the letters of Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse herself. 

Certain of Julie's letters to Guibert and Con- 
dorcet contain passages hitherto scarcely intelligible, 
at best wearing every appearance of morbid over- 
emphasis. In this strain she writes to the former : 
" One day I will tell you such tales as are not to 
be found in the novels either of Prevost or Richard- 
son. The compound of unhappy circumstances 
that make up my history has taught me that the 



12 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

truth is often too utterly incredible. . . . Oh, but 
I can tell you that men are cruel! Tigers are 
kind by comparison ! " The same tragic note runs 
through this to Condorcet : "I, who have known 
nothing but pain and suffering, I, who have 
suffered atrocities at the very hands from which I 
should have looked for nothing but gentleness ! " 

These are strong expressions to apply to the, 
unhappily too common, situation of the child born 
out of wedlock, and suffering for the fault of which 
it is guiltless. But, call Gaspard de Vichy her 
father, and we have a key to the woe. In 1736, 
being then forty years of age, and Julie seven, this 
man married Marie Camille Diane, the Countess 
d'Albon's legitimate daughter, and his junior by 
twenty years. Such a marriage with the daughter 
of a former mistress, however reprehensible in 
itself, is not without parallel, especially at this 
epoch. But the situation becomes complicated 
when the child of the earlier and unlawful connec- 
tion is reared under an assumed name by a mother 
who wishes to acknowledge her but dares not, and 
in full view of the father, also a brother-in-law, 
whose interests are consequently in direct opposi- 
tion to those of his natural daughter. It is not 
difficult to imagine what unhappy conflicts and 
miserable pangs were the inevitable result of such 
confusion. 

Of what little we know of Gaspard de Vichy's 
character, nothing unhappily discredits these 
horrors. With the single exception of the "Abbe 
de Champrond " — the simple and good-natured trea- 



GASPARD DE VICHY 13 

surer of La Sainte Chapelle — every Vichy in this 
generation, Madame du Deffand or Madame 
d'Aulan no less than their brothers, exhibits the 
same characteristics and is cast in the like mould. 
All are spirited above the ordinary, cultivated and 
attractive ; but they are, also, hard and opinionated 
egoists, cynical in speech and unscrupulous in act. 
"Certainly," writes a contemporary, with every 
reason to know them, "they are a unique collection. 
Our poor abbe has an eminently kind heart, but I 
doubt the rest are not sure whether they possess 
such an organ." And this criticism is the sad 
confidence of Gaspard's wife to her children ! 

No discussion on the point of Julie's birth can 
close without a reference to the documents, put in 
my hands by a fortunate chance. The marriage of 
Count de Vichy with Diane d'Albon found issue in 
a son, Abel Marie Claude, a boy, as already set out, 
at once the brother and nephew of Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse. This boy, her junior by eight years, 
presently became the object of her particular affec- 
tion. A mass of letters, written by Julie to her 
brother — correspondence hitherto unknown, but one 
of the chief authorities for much in the present 
volume — exhibits the unmistakable note of an elder 
sister's loving care. Claiming no open confession of 
the sentiment, their writer displays a sweet and 
motherly concern, the sense that it is both her right 
and duty to watch over one whose happiness, she 
constantly repeats, "is dearer and more precious to 
me than anything else in the world." This affection 
stands out the more clearly by contrast to her in- 



14 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

difference, not to say hostility, to all that touches a 
d'Albon, a note only too clearly apparent in such 
sarcasm as ting-es these lines to the same brother. 
" It seems to me that you see little, if anything, of 
your d'Albon relations, or does this mean that your 
affection for them is on the same scale? It would 
be a natural feeling enough ! " The same note is 
yet more apparent in this : ** You fail to tell me 
if the little d'Albon still continues to aspire to a 
monastery, or will solve the problem by dying in a 
decline. He would be a great loss — his face at 
all events." But the same writer becomes almost 
passionate where her subject is Gaspard de Vichy's 
son. Every circumstance of his life calls out fresh 
interest, his wife when he marries, "the children, 
whom I love to distraction." She is his mentor in 
all the thousand chances of life — his career, his 
attitude towards the family, even his investments. 
She takes infinite pains to push his promotion while 
in the army, to obtain for him the Cross of Saint 
Louis, when he retires. Ill and shivering with 
fever, she leaves her bed to press some plea on 
his behalf. "In a thousand years I shall not 
exert myself again as I have just done for you ! " 

Every page of this correspondence is filled with 
the caressing expressions in which a sister's tender- 
ness pours out. " All that interests you is dear to 
me, and I shall always hold my happiness incom- 
plete while we are condemned to live so far apart. 
... I loved you to distraction when you were 
a child. The feeling is unchanged, and will never 
alter while I live. . . . All that I do for you is the 



ABEL DE VICHY 15 

one thing for which there may be no gratitude, to 
love you with all my heart." One of her first letters 
after their parting gently scolds him, boy as he still 
is, for a too formal address towards herself. "You 
are, I know, a pretty big boy, a man of consegz^ence, 
but remember that I knew you when that high. 
Then I was your good friend in name ; to-day I am 
this in fact. And so, I beg of you, do not fear the 
words which express friendship. I will tolerate no 
Mademoiselle in a letter from you. In public one 
bows to custom, but between you and me I will lose 
nothing." 

Young Vichy's backwardness seems excusable 
enough, for it appears certain that he was long 
ignorant of the truth about his friend's origin, 
witness a letter with veiled allusions to the family's 
earlier refusal of Madame d'Albon's great desire 
that her daughter should be recognised. " Perhaps 
all this is still a sealed book to you, dear friend. 
Your mother will give you a key to unlock it." 
The young man naturally questioned Countess de 
Vichy, and the unhappy impression of the dismal 
truth upon his candid nature is clearly apparent in 
this laconic entry in the day's diary. " I had a long 
talk with mother about Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. 
What horrors ! " Abel's affection for his sister in- 
creases from this date, becomes, if possible, more 
tender. He journeys to Paris especially to see her, 
and to show her his wife and children ; takes a more 
active part against her traducers ; when the time 
comes, makes himself a place at her bedside, and 
refuses to leave before the end. " My nephew," 



i6 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

writes Madame du Deffand next day, " wished to see 
the will. He claimed a right to this, and it seems 
that he had one, for he certainly got his way." 

This lengthy discussion may close with a plea 
for indulgence, if only since it anticipates several 
points which must be reopened in the course of my 
narrative. But it is to be remembered that the 
problem of Julie's parentage has been regarded as 
one of the insoluble enigmas of literary history. 
Material proof is still lacking, as is usual in such 
cases, but the moral proofs just brought together 
seem convincing, and the following narrative will 
assume that they are so. 

The silence of contemporary records anent the 
parentage of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse is broken 
in regard to her childhood, but the major part of 
the details to be thus gleaned are unfortunately 
apocryphal. The most complete story is La 
Harpe's. It is likewise the least trustworthy — a 
regrettable fact, since his narration is quite a drama 
in brief, and lacks no element of possible interest. 
The injured husband of his tale kidnaps the child 
and hides her in a provincial convent ; there the dis- 
tracted mother mysteriously appears, while jealous 
legitimate children terrify their unfortunate sister 
with brutal threats. "Her mother redoubled her 
fears by the most solemn warnings against all who 
might endeavour to visit her at the convent. She 
must partake of nothing which did not emanate 
from the kitchen of the house, decline all sweets 
and flowers, leave the grounds under no pretext 
whatever." Grimm is less circumstantial, but 



EARLY LIFE AT AVAUGES 17 

almost as ill-informed. " She was the daughter 
of Countess d'Albon, who never dared to own her. 
Since she has learned the full meaning of this 
denial, she declines to receive anything from her 
mother." The errors in all these recitals are little 
less numerous than the words in which they are 
couched. The truth is both far from simple, and 
far less tragic. 

So far from disowning her daughter, the coun- 
tess at once took Julie into her own house, rearing 
her "almost publicly," and in defiance of gossip. 
This is the formal statement of a man who had the 
story direct from Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's 
mouth, and Guibert's assertion runs, point by point, 
with that of Madame du Deffand and the story as 
I have pieced it out from papers in the Chateau 
d'Avauges. The illegitimate child shares the nur- 
ture and education of her mother's lawful issue in 
these days, or, if there be a distinction drawn, 
it is all in favour of the " love-child." Madame 
d'Albon's usual residence at the time was the old 
manor-house at Avauges, on the road between 
Lyons and Tarare, a residence continuously occu- 
pied by successive heads of the family since the 
destruction of their castle at Saint-Forgeux in the 
sixteenth century. Avauges at this time retained its 
ramparts, moats, and towers, all the concomitants 
of a medieval feudal fortress, but it was rebuilt in 
1765 in the style of Louis XV., thus losing in gran- 
deur but falling more into line with newer ideas and 
customs. The old stronghold has now perished, 
but no vandal hands have been able to mar the 

B 



i8 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

charms of its former site in the fertile valley watered 
by the Turdine, or the splendid panorama of a 
horizon on which the long line of wooded hill-tops 
of the Forez range is crowned by the three moun- 
tains Tarare, Saint Loup, and Saint Romain. 

Julie de Lespinasse passed her earliest years 
in this lordly house. Of the Countess d'Albon's 
legitimate children, the daughter Diane was her 
senior by sixteen years, a disparity in age preclud- 
ing any comradeship or affinity in tastes. But 
Camille, born in 1724, was still a child, and so 
much her companion that Madame du Deffand can 
write, "she spent her youth with him." Sincere 
and mutual affection was the fruit of these early 
days, the first influences so potent in their impres- 
sion upon all after life. It survived their later 
separation, and was broken only by a cruel mis- 
understanding many years later. This quiet and 
uneventful life was disturbed in its eighth year by 
two events, the marriage of Diane with Gaspard 
de Vichy, and Camille's entry into the army. 
The lad's departure doubtless lost Julie a joyous 
comrade, and condemned her to the monotonous 
existence of an only child ; but the marriage of 
her elder sister, celebrated at Avauges on Novem- 
ber 18, 1739, led to results of a darker kind, for the 
long roll of her misfortunes may be said to begin 
from this date. 

The idea, and final arrangement, of such a mar- 
riage could only cost Madame d'Albon the deepest 
remorse and many tears. No record, indeed, re- 
mains to tell us of the long mental struggle, the 



REMORSE OF COUNTESS D'ALBON 19 

heart-rending agonies endured by the poor woman, 
but her deep and bitter suffering is sufficiently to be 
understood from the immediate change in her habits 
of life. Tenderness turns to exaltation, dreaminess 
to mysticism ; a natural melancholy becomes the 
darkest depression. Alone with the child whose 
very existence is the endless reminder of her sin, 
she seems haunted by prevision of the storms 
awaiting this frail life, and eternally reproaches 
herself with the pains and disillusionment in store 
for a daughter only too like herself. Already ailing 
as she was, the presentiment of early death unduly 
darkened her prevision of the lot of the orphan left 
alone, or dependent upon a father with little real 
affection for her and so placed that he must look 
askance upon a daughter who could be nothing 
but a vexatious encumbrance at best, and the 
cause of complications from which she herself 
would be the first to suffer. 

A dream, now taking shape in the Countess 
d'Albon's mind, was the natural outcome of such 
ponderings. Whatever the facts, and despite the 
then separation between the count and herself, 
Julie had been born within the term of that mar- 
riage, and christened first with her mother's 
first name, and next with that of a family estate. 
She had been bred up at Avauges under her own 
constant care. All this amounted to a public con- 
fession of motherhood, which might surely condone 
the irregular conditions of the child's actual entry 
upon this life, and the imposture committed at the 
baptism. All her desires centred on the possibility 



20 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

of legalising the bastard, of giving to Julie place 
and name, with the rights inseparable from it, a 
lawful daughter's share in the family inheritance. 
Dubiously feasible as the project may seem to us, 
we can read the seriousness of the discussion in the 
fears of those whose interests would have suffered 
by such an act of reparation, the way in which they 
afterwards exercised themselves to obtain Julie's 
promise never to pursue the idea, and finally, 
despite this promise and almost up to the day of 
her death, their careful precautions against the 
eventuality of any such attempt. Certainly, no act 
of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse ever justified these 
fears, but, also, she never denied her origin. Her 
correspondence teems with the plainest allusions to 
this, and many of her letters, to members of the 
family and friends alike, are sealed with the d'Albon 
arms engraved on the lozenge-shaped shield used 
by unmarried daughters. 

Whatever the prospect of success, Madame 
d'Albon clung tenaciously to the hope of restoring 
to her daughter all the advantages of a legitimate 
status. It is only too easy to understand how the 
chief obstacle to this was her own son-in-law, or 
how, whatever might have been their position with- 
out his influence, Diane and Camille neglected no 
means of thwarting such maternal hopes. Singu- 
larly painful scenes were the natural result, and it 
is these miserable squabbles to which Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse alludes in her bitter letter to Abel de 
Vichy. " You at all events know the tenderness 
of my affection for your mother. She has over- 



MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 21 

whelmed me with proofs of her goodness and 
affection, and although she has denied herself the 
establishment of my life's happiness, thanks to a 
scruple more than praiseworthy in itself, no doubt, 
yet one which might have found its counterpoise 
in the wonderful consequences to myself, I shall 
never regret my immense loss on this account 
if she comes to understand that my feeling for 
her is to the same extent more lively and more 
real than that of those others for whose sake she 
has herself made immense sacrifices." 

Unable to secure her daughter's future in any 
regular way, Madame d'Albon would gladly have 
seen her safe within the walls of a convent, then 
even more than to-day the natural refuge of life's 
poor children. The terms of her will leave no 
room for doubt upon this point. But here again the 
countess found her path insurmountably barred. 
Young as the child was, her spirit and aspirations 
revolted absolutely before the silent peacefulness, 
the anticipated death, of the nunnery. Her ardent 
heart and passionate disposition were already dis- 
playing that activity of mind, the curious intelli- 
gence and fierce lust of living, of which neither 
age, sickness, nor a very sea of troubles could 
ever quite extinguish the fires. " If I have often 
fallen to saying that life is the grand evil, I have 
sometimes felt it a supreme good, and the wish 
that they had never been born, so often found in 
the mouth of the unhappy, shall certainly never 
pass my lips. Indeed and indeed, let my present 
mood call for the release of death, I render thanks 



22 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

to that order of creation under which I came to be 
born." 

Foiled in her hopes this second time, Madame 
d'Albon's redoubled fears contemplated the future 
of the innocent creature, whom she must so soon 
leave to face life alone. Unable to contain these 
terrors, she could not refrain from imparting them 
to her in whom they had their origin, and the child 
received the half-veiled confidences of her sorrow 
and remorse. " Often," says Guibert, " she would 
secretly bathe her daughter's face with her tears. 
The unhappy mother seemed to hope that, as she 
overwhelmed her with caresses and favours, all 
this tenderness might in some way compensate her 
daughter for the sad benefit of her birth." A letter 
of Julie herself to Condorcet contains a startling 
confirmation of this. " By a surely singular con- 
trariety, my childhood was troubled by the very 
care taken to exercise and exalt my sensibilities. 
Terror and fear were my familiars long before I 
could either think or judge." 

In the month of August 1746 Madame d'Albon, 
feeling that the end could not be delayed much 
longer, summoned her notary to Avauges. A 
clause in her will thus refers to Julie : " I bequeathe 
to Julie Jeanne Eleonore Lespinasse, daughter of 
Claude Lespinasse and Julie Navarre, an annual 
allowance of three hundred livres ^ for the term of 
her life, and I direct that the said sum be payable 
to her as to one half-part at each half-year, the first 

^ The livre varied in value between 20 and 25 sous in the various 
provinces. The franc was coined to supersede it. 



JULIE'S LEGACY 23 

payment to be made at my decease, and payment 
thenceforward to be made in advance ; the said 
allowance shall be for the maintenance, education, 
and nurture of the said Lespinasse, in such convent 
as she may at her election choose to enter until 
such time as she marry, attain her majority, or 
assume the veil, in each or either of which events 
I direct that my heir shall disburse the sum of six 
thousand livres as dowry for the said Lespinasse, 
on entering religion, marriage, or attaining her 
majority, and the sum aforesaid I hereby acknow- 
ledge to have been by me received in trust for the 
said Lespinasse, the payment of which sum not- 
withstanding she shall continue to enjoy the said 
annuity of three hundred livres during the term 
of her natural life, or an annuity of two hundred 
livres if she enter a house of religion. . . . This 
being my intent, I hereby declare my heir free and 
discharged of the said payment of the sum of six 
thousand livres in case the said Lespinasse shall 
have married or entered a house of religion during 
the period of my life, notwithstanding always that 
in this event I shall myself have paid the said sum 
of six thousand livres, in the which event my heir 
shall remain bound for the due discharge of the 
annuity only as aforesaid." ^ 

The dowry and annuity thus left to her daughter 
by the Countess d'Albon may appear by no means 
unduly large or in proportion to her income, for, 
heavily as her inheritance had suffered, she was 
still far from poor. The discrepancy is, however, 

^ Countess d'Albon died on April 6 in the following year, 1748. 



24 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

easily accounted for, if we remember that this will 
is made in due form, fully witnessed. In such a 
document, Madame d'Albon must perforce treat 
her daughter like any stranger, but, having thus 
observed the conventions, she sought to make 
redress by means of a simple gift. Madame du 
Deffand records that " a cabinet in her room con- 
tained a sufficiently large sum of money " set aside 
for this purpose, and that, shortly before the end, 
she caused Julie to be summoned to her bedside, 
gave her the key of the cabinet, and " bade her 
keep the contents for her personal use." Unfor- 
tunately, no sooner was her mother dead, than the 
girl's first care was to restore the whole to her 
brother. "She led Monsieur d'Albon to the said 
bureau, gave him the key, and insisted on his 
taking the entire contents," refusing to receive for 
herself a single penny out of moneys upon which she 
could have no sort of lawful claim. The generosity 
of so disinterested an action is only to be compared 
with its imprudence, for, having stripped herself of 
the ability to stand alone, Julie remained at the 
mercy of those who might wish to control her 
future. 

Julie de Lespinasse was sixteen when she lost 
the mother whom she loved with much tenderness, 
and of whose memory she was to write, "it has 
always been to me both dear and the subject of 
reverence." Her intense grief touched the least 
sympathetic, and the pain of it was much increased 
by her fears of the loneliness to follow. Camille 
d'Albon, "who had always treated her as his real 



CHAMPROND 25 

sister," and evinced real affection for her, being 
recalled to his duties as an officer in the cavalry, 
found it impossible to assume charge of so young a 
girl in a garrison town. She was thus thrown upon 
the compassion of the Count and Countess de Vichy, 
and the Marquise du Deffand asserts that their 
" spontaneous " offer of a home was " very gladly 
accepted." Whatever the truth of this gladness, it 
is certain that the removal to the Vichys' estate at 
Champrond, and the severance of all those precious 
memories which bound her to the old manor of 
Avauges, entailed a change of life little less radical 
than if one should root some tender plant from its 
special plot and cast it to wither on ground quite un- 
suited to its need, under inclement and sunless skies. 

Champrond, created a county by letters under 
date 1644, lay on the border between the Macon- 
nais and Lyonnais, in the small district of 
Ligny-en-Brionnais. Beyond a few ruined walls, 
nothing now remains of the old chateau, sold by the 
Revolutionary government as the property of the 
Emigres; but a detailed description, dated 1735, 
affords a sufficiently accurate idea of the house 
in which Mademoiselle de Lespinasse passed four 
years of her life. 

A "stronghold" rather than a pleasure-house, 
Champrond consisted of "a great square tower, 
flanked by long wings to left and right, the whole 
surrounded by a moat crossed by a drawbridge." 
The severe aspect of this pile was relieved by two 
grand terraces, " one to the north-east, the other to 
the south " ; a formal garden, a pigeon-house, a 



26 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

stream which wound through the park, "long alleys 
of wych-elm," and an old chapel at the end of one 
of these. Moderate as the wealth of its owners 
appears to have been, their household included all 
the numerous functionaries then deemed inseparable 
from the estate of a gentleman — almoner, steward, 
major-domo, two cooks, four lackeys, a coachman, 
and two postillions, besides " two secretaries and an 
assistant-governess." Some idea of the luxurious 
furnishing of the house may be obtained from the 
record of the sale decreed in 1793. It lasted 
an entire month, and produced a sum of forty- 
eight thousand livres — high figures for that age. 

Until Julie's arrival. Count and Countess de 
Vichy and their children were the sole regular 
inmates of the chateau. Gaspard, still robust 
despite his full fifty-three years, and a retired 
major-general, ruled his family estates with the 
imperious strictness and harshly minute scrutiny 
characteristic of all his actions, and relaxed only 
on the rare occasions when policy sent him to 
Paris, since his sister, Madame du Deffand, lived 
there and he aspired to her inheritance. 

The countess, an intelligent and clever woman, 
but entirely subservient to a husband much older 
than herself and of whom she stood in fear, was 
entirely absorbed in the care of her children. At 
the time of Julie's arrival she was expecting her 
third child. This daughter, born only six weeks 
after Madame d'Albon's death, was christened 
Anne Camille, but the child appears to have 
died in infancy. Of her two elder children, Abel 



ABEL DE VICHY 27 

Claude Marie was just turning his ninth year, 
whilst his brother, Alexandre Mariette, was three 
years younger. Of this latter, little record need be 
made. Hot-tempered, weak-willed, the subject of 
fits of rage which raised serious doubts as to his 
sanity, he disliked companionship from his earliest 
years, and lived in surly, usually solitary, aloofness. 
Before the boy could be fairly called a youth, he 
was in the habit of leaving home and completely 
disappearing for months at a time. His death, 
at the age of twenty-five, came to the family as 
a relief rather than a cause for sorrow. 

Abel's character was of a very different kind, 
and seldom have two brothers developed greater 
or more startling dissimilarities after an identical 
up-bringing, the one crazy, restless, and morose, 
the other almost as signally sweet, tractable, and 
sane. Age and education merely increased this 
lad's natural excellences. In such of his letters 
as have come down to us, and a diary, we see an 
upright and loyal lad, deliberate in action, chaste 
and sensible, of moderate wits, lacking in brilliance, 
but overcoming this deficiency by strength of will 
and a simple common sense ; a boy, indeed, worthy 
at all points of the witness borne by Julie when 
she writes, " I loved you with all my heart when 
you were still of the tenderest years, but to this 
sentiment has been added the esteem always 
evoked when an upright spirit is found wedded 
to a strong will." I need not repeat what I have 
already said of the immediate aftection conceived 
by the girl for this child, eight years her junior, 



28 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

and to whom she was so nearly related by ties not 
to be confessed. Abel was her comfort in sad 
hours through all the four years spent with the 
Vichys, the one real joy which sometimes scattered 
the clouds of her habitual melancholy. 

Guibert, usually well-informed, says that it was 
in Champrond that Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
first learned the full truth about her birth. " They 
[i.e. her relations] made her understand who she 
was. . . . In a single minute she found herself re- 
duced to the position of an orphan and a stranger. 
A disdainful and barbarous charity thus took in 
charge the unfortunate girl, hitherto surrounded by 
every care known to natural affection and remorse." 
Whatever the effects of this sudden revelation, 
Julie's earlier days in the chateau appear to have 
been moderately calm and peaceful. Reading and 
work filled the day. Here she finished her educa- 
tion, interrupted at Avauges, now studying on her 
own account, now busying herself with the chil- 
dren's lessons. Doubtless her taste was finally 
formed, and her wit sharpened at a later date — we 
shall see in what an incomparable school — but the 
brilliant polish acquired in after years rested on 
the sure foundations to be laid by early study 
alone. '* She was no wise woman," writes a con- 
temporary, "but she was excellently informed. 
She knew English and Italian, and was acquainted 
with the literature of several other tong^ues througfh 
the medium of our best translations. No one 
known to me has so fully possessed the precious 
gift of seizing the right word. She grew up on 



JULIE'S LOVE OF CHILDREN 29 

Racine, Voltaire, and la Fontaine ; she knew them 
by heart." 

The year following Julie's arrival at Champ- 
rond. Monsieur and Madame Vichy passed the 
winter in Paris, leaving their children in her sole 
charge. Young as she was, single-handed, and 
with none to counsel her, the girl undertook the 
care of three children, the eldest among- them 
scarcely turned ten, and the youngest still in the 
cradle, and devoted herself to this precocious 
mothering without a murmur. Her marked taste 
for children can, indeed, be noticed at every stage 
in her life. She seems to understand their nature 
and admire their graceful ways. "If you cared for 
them a trifle more," she writes to Guibert at a 
later date, " I would confide in you my idea that 
I observe some affinity with them in everything 
that attracts. A child has so much grace, such 
adaptability, and is so natural. After all, what 
is Harlequin but half a cat and half a child, 
and was there ever his superior in charm ? " 
Julie's conduct of her little kingdom on this occa- 
sion won her the adoration of its subjects. Even 
their parents, so frigid as a rule, allowed a trifle of 
gratitude to pass their lips. Three years later 
Madame du Deffand writes of this : " They were 
loud in their praises, telling me how much they 
owed her for her infinite trouble in educating their 
daughter." 

The return of the count and his wife none 
the less marks the commencement of a less peace- 
ful period. On the exact point at issue the vaguest 



30 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

and most incomplete particulars are available, but 
it was not long before the existing order of things 
became clearly intolerable, and life at Champrond 
a little hell on earth. Expressions used by Guibert 
and Madame du Deffand seem to suggest that, 
struck by the unexpected aptitudes evinced by 
their ward, Count and Countess Guibert sought to 
exploit this for their own advantage, more or less 
consciously pressing Julie into the position of a 
governess, without salary and, equally, without 
any particular claims to consideration or the cour- 
tesies. An appeal to her heart might have induced 
her to play such a part, but this attempt to impose 
it called up instant revolt. She was certainly no 
woman to accept the treatment of an inferior from 
her equals, even if she had not shared the know- 
ledge that their blood ran in her own veins. 
Certain passages in her letters point to the further 
probability that tension existed in respect of the 
incurable fears, now as always at work in the 
family, lest any consideration shown her — her very 
freedom of the family roof — might be used to sup- 
port an attempt to recover her mother's name and 
a share in her fortune. There arose in this way an 
affectation of reserves, galling supervision, incessant 
reminders, less in word than in the very terms of 
existence, of the bastard's smirch under which her 
young pride suffered so cruelly. With a nature as 
fine and impressionable, as quick to distinguish 
shades and suggestions ; a soul ever alert, and of 
the quality to which judgment and feeling are 
synonymous terms, it is easy to understand what 



TROUBLES IN CHAMPROND 31 

dumb irritation and, presently, fierce resentment 
filled the heart of this girl of twenty. Numerous 
violent scenes occurred, and words were exchanged 
of the kind never forgotten, for which no reparation 
can be made. Always intense in her feelings, she 
can now see her relations in no light but that of 
"barbarian persecutors," and is visited with those 
moods of acute despair to which death appears as 
a haven of refuge. " She survived," writes Guibert, 
after receiving her confidences on these evil days, 
" because grief does not kill at that age ; more 
correctly, because that age is not yet acquainted 
with grief." 

Two years of this lamentable existence saw her 
endurance at an end, and her mind made up. She 
will no longer eat the bitter bread of a heartless pity, 
but will abandon an asylum which yields nothing 
but humiliations and slights. The aspirations of a 
soul, ever fluttering its wings toward the mirage- 
lieht of life's unknown allurements, shall be crushed 
down, and her mother's last wish fulfilled by her 
entry into a convent. Her eldest brother, Camille 
d'Albon, "on whose friendship she pinned her 
faith, and who had always treated her as his real 
sister," should advise her, help her even with his 
purse to complete, if needful, a sufficient sum to 
dower her as a nun. No sooner was the project 
formed, than Julie pursued it hot-foot. She wrote 
to Count d'Albon to inform him of her "unassail- 
able resolution," and appealed to his brotherly 
devotion. 

At this juncture, and in the midst of these 



32 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

preparations, a chance new - comer, arriving at 
Champrond, swept away the entire fabric of her 
plans. Her disordered ship is thenceforth steered 
directly back to the deep from which it had so lately 
turned. Julie sails at last for the large horizon of 
seas sown with reefs and peopled with tempests, 
and the pilot, author of this revolution, need scarcely 
be named as the Marquise du Deffand. 



CHAPTER II 

The Marquise du Deffand — Three periods in her life — State of her mind on 
arrival at Champrond — Rapid intimacy with Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
— Spiritual and physical portrait of Julie in her twentieth year — First 
project of living with Madame du Deffand — ^Julie leaves the Vichys — 
Period of her stay at Lyons — Complicated negotiations with Madame du 
Deffand — Opposition of Count d'Albon — ^Julie decides to live in Paris. 

Few women of the eighteenth century are either 
more celebrated, or better deserve their fame, than 
she whose appearance at Champrond so changed 
the life of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. This 
Madame du Deffand of history is the old friend 
of Walpole and the Duchesse de Choiseul, the 
coiner of sparkling epigrams, and the correspon- 
dent many of whose letters may well bear com- 
parison with those of Madame de S6vign6. But 
the story of her youth, the school wherein her 
mind was formed, her family history, or the 
more intimate details of her career, are shrouded 
in a certain obscurity which it seems that she was 
at no pains to dissipate. Our interest, however, lies 
with just this aspect of her personality, and before 
developing the large question of her place in Julie's 
life, I may sketch the portrait revealed by the 
careful researches of my predecessors and my own 
inquiries. 

Gaspard de Vichy's younger sister Marie was 
born at Champrond on the 25th of December 1697. 



34 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Early committed to the care of the Benedictines 
of La Madeleine du Traisnel at Paris, she passed 
her entire youth in the scarcely edifying atmo- 
sphere of a convent in little but the name, and under 
an abbess, Frangoise d'Arbouze de Villemont, who 
was credited with according her favours to a 
list of adorers ranging from the Marquis d'Argen- 
son to the flute-player Descoteaux. The pupil's 
subsequent confession that she learned nothing in 
so dubious and flighty an atmosphere, but pieced 
out her own education after leaving the place, is 
hardly surprising. Nor need we wonder unduly 
if her lost faith declined to rise anew under the 
eloquence of Massillon, sent by an aunt, the 
Duchesse de Luynes, to combat the recusancy 
of this horribly precocious child of ten. " My 
astonished spirit trembled before his," she re- 
calls in after years, " but I surrendered to the 
importance of the reasoner, not the power of his 
arguments." Champfort's record of the astound- 
ing interview asserts that, having carefully heard 
her objections, Massillon retired with a " She's a 
charming child." Asked, however, to suggest the 
most likely book to convince his disputant, his 
sole reply was " A penny catechism ! " 

In her twenty-first year Julie de Vichy married 
the Marquis du Deffand, a man of good birth but 
a poor husband, in character mediocre and meddle- 
some, "at a thousand little pains to displease," as 
she concisely remarks. A single step from the 
cloister launched the young wife on the court of the 
Regent. The consequences of her daily intimacy 



PRESIDENT Hl^NAULT 35 

with his favourites and mistresses need not be dwelt 
upon. We may well follow the prudent reserve 
of their heroine and cast a veil over passing aberra- 
tions, which left her full of self-disgust and pro- 
foundly contemptuous of those who had shared 
them. Satiated by ten years of such follies, and 
determined to reform, she doubly fortified her 
purpose by obtaining a formal separation from her 
husband and engaging in a serious intrigue. The 
method hardly commends itself to modern taste, 
but in adopting it Madame du Deffand merely 
kept touch with an age in which it was the accus- 
tomed refuge of women in search of the quiet life 
and a fireside of almost conjugal tranquillity. Her 
choice was that of a woman both wise and intelli- 
gent, and she could certainly point to the happiest 
results. 

At this time, the year 1730, President Henault 
was in his forty-fifth year. Of striking presence, 
bright-eyed, and of a florid complexion, with fine 
and well-kept hands, he was a typical worldly 
and lettered magistrate of an age now passed — 
fluent as a speaker, as a writer nourished on the 
sound old classical stuff, ready to pass, as at a 
game, from grave historical arguments to the 
lightest scenario of a ballet at the Opera, from 
gallant rondeaux to the pompous measure of a 
tragedy. Serious, yet no pedant ; loving his joke, 
but never descending to silliness ; free of tongue, yet 
without offence ; enjoying life, but no libertine ; a 
delicate walker in all his pleasures ; an upright 
gentleman, with a pretty taste in wines and at 



36 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

the table, the President was in one word and in 
every respect "entirely amiable," according to his 
generation's acceptance of the phrase. In all the 
varied spheres through which he moved, at court 
or in the salons, in Parliament or the Academy, 
the wings at the Opera or the boudoir of a pretty 
lady, he was ever the man, entirely at his ease 
and in the right place, of whom the excellent 
Due de Luynes is moved to speak with thus 
boundless admiration. " He is the most knowing 
man-of-the-world in every respect — in respect, at 
all events, of whatever is socially useful and 
agreeable." Even caustic d'Argenson does no 
more than flavour his honey with gall. "He has 
wit, grace, delicacy, and tact ; successfully cultivates 
music, poetry, and light literature, and is never 
either first-class or superior, stupid or flat." 

But if men could praise thus, women almost 
pursued him. They " doted " on him, and he 
seldom proved cruel. He was, indeed, a discreet 
man, of a sweet and indulgent temper, capable of 
friendship, and perhaps of tenderness, of passion 
never ; — as one may perceive, the ideal lover for a 
woman of thirty, something notorious for the faults 
of her youth, and seeking, above all else, an amiable 
and trusty companion, a man to stand for her 
against the slanderer, a guide and strong arm for 
the ever difficult way which leads from youth to 
maturity. Henault was all this to Madame du 
Deffand. Calculation and expediency pushed her 
to the connection. It rapidly restored her lost 
consideration, and became the solid foundation 



H^NAULT AND MME. DU DEFFAND z^ 

on which was bulk the edifice of her new career. 
He rendered yeoman service in this kind, but her 
gentler wares repaid him fully. Blasde and weary 
she might be, but her weariness was shot with 
the piquant and ever fresh play of her wit. She 
became the solace of his leisure, the incomparable 
attraction at his famous suppers. Whatever the 
occasional tyrannies of his mistress, the demand 
of her changing humours, Renault is presently 
dependent on the atmosphere with which she 
has infused existence. "You are my necessary 
evil," he writes when the relation is already ten 
years old. 

Nevertheless, neither on the one side nor the 
other did this connection ever evoke absolute 
confidence, tender self-surrender, or even real 
affection. Still less could it bring those storms 
of the senses or the imagination which sometimes 
wear the mantle of love. " Neither temperament 
nor romance," Madame du Deffand writes of her- 
self; while the President, worn before his time by 
late hours and high living, was not far from the 
period of life when, in his own phrase, "a man is 
not wholly sorry if he happen to mistake the hour 
and to miss an assignation." Thus it was not long 
before the lovers became a pair of allies, more 
really a couple of old friends united by custom and 
the power of habit, not even taking the trouble to 
prolong a mutually meaningless comedy. "Your 
absence is delightful," she writes. He answers in 
the same vein, " I regretted you the more since 
absence might credit you with sentiments that 



38 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

only your presence disproves " — strange passages 
between strange lovers ! 

This period of her life saw Madame du Deffand 
lay the foundations of her future salon. Every 
summer she spent several months at Sceaux. At 
its celebrated "court," among the friends of the 
Duchesse du Maine, those whom Paris then 
accounted its men of letters and women of wit, 
the Marquise finished her education, and formed 
her literary taste at the feet of authors, learned 
men, and the philosophers of the day. Her quick 
intelligence seldom failed to assimilate whatever she 
read or heard. Later in the year, when she took 
up her winter quarters — first with her brother, the 
canon of La Sainte Chapelle, later in her own 
house in the Rue de Beaune, the new friends 
gathered round her table. These parties were 
originally of no great size, but her reputation for 
wit grew fast, as her epigrams were freely repeated. 
A little feared, and much courted in consequence, 
the company of her visitors swelled until "the 
gradual increase of her reputation caused her to 
find her quarters inadequate." The opportune 
death of her husband about this time largely 
increased her means, and made possible that re- 
moval from the Rue de Beaune to the Convent of 
Saint Joseph which was to renew the fame of a 
house already notable as the residence of Madame 
de Montespan. I must shortly return to the sub- 
ject of this house, for it was the home of Julie de 
Lespinasse during ten years, and the cradle of her 
fame. 



THE MARQUISE REFORMS 39 

The Marquise du Deffand was close upon her 
fiftieth year at the date of this move, April 1747. 
She had recovered her place in public opinion, 
and had forsaken gallantry for love, finding no 
great profit in either. The time seemed ripe for 
yet a third essay, in which she should confine 
herself to the pleasures of friendship. The resolve 
was no sooner taken than she put it in practice 
with her customary decision and rapidity, A 
complete change in her mode of life announced 
it to the world. " I have entirely reformed 
myself," she tells Formont. " I have forsaken 
the public shows, and attend High Mass in my 
parish church. The rouge-pot and my President 
must forego the honour of formal renunciation." 
Henault, as suggested in these words, remained a 
frequent visitor at the new house, but any privilege 
other than that of his fellow-guests is lost to him. 
The hour of adventures has struck. All friends 
are equally welcome, and husbandless and childless, 
without an obligation, the Marquise du Deffand 
knows no care other than to lay up for herself a 
pleasant and easy old age in the bosom of many 
friendships. Henceforth her personality assumed 
the guise under which it has come down to 
posterity. 

The scheme was cunningly devised, yet it 
almost suffered shipwreck on the rocks of unfore- 
seen disaster. The Marquise had but newly 
"reformed" when she received the first hint of 
impending misfortune in a threatened failure of 
sight, surely one of the greatest ills to which 



40 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

our humanity is prone. The progress of the 
malady filled her with fears and trembling, and 
she fought a desperate battle with this unseizable 
spectre of sightless old age, a horror which seemed 
daily nearer and more menacing. When the Pro- 
fession confessed themselves powerless, she called 
in the quacks and charlatans — a numerous class 
at the time. Each boasted his remedy and 
promised a cure, and each failed in turn. But 
if no miracle came, the Marquise at least pro- 
longed the period of her hopes, no mean benefit ; 
"and when she had vainly tried all their reme- 
dies, it was easy to be reconciled to what 
could not be amended and had become a normal 
condition." 

This statement of Madame de Genlis is, doubt- 
less, too highly coloured. If Madame du Deffand 
became finally reconciled, her surrender was never 
absolute, certainly not thus rapid. Her letters of 
the period may ignore the haunting fear, but they 
are full of tremors and but slightly veiled anguish. 
Four years of fruitless struggles found her, in 1752, 
highly discouraged and without many illusions on 
the score of her fate. The painful subject has now 
to be recognised. Word and letter take her friends 
into confidence, and she receives their comfort, 
little as we can conceive that it justified the name. 
" You say that you are blind. Do you not see that 
we, you and I, were little rebel spirits, and are now 
consigned to the shades. You should find comfort 
in the thought that those who see are not, by that 
one token, luminous ! " The honour of such poor 



HER FAILING SIGHT 41 

stuff falls to Montesquieu. Voltaire follows, but if 
he provides a trifle of sympathy, his compassion is 
still of little more account. " My eyes were a little 
moist when they read of what has befallen yours. 
Monsieur de Formont's letter had made me believe 
you between the devil and the deep sea, not in 
darkness. But 1 pity you infinitely if you have 
really lost the use of them." To Formont, how- 
ever, he writes in pretty, jocular strain of the death 
that had fallen upon those eyes which once claimed 
so many victims. "Why must we sinners suffer 
through the org-ans wherewith we were used to 
sin ? And what is this rage of nature to spoil her 
finest works ? At least, Madame du Deffand keeps 
her spirit. Her eyes were never finer ! " 

One can hardly wonder if this Job's sympathy 
from her friends-in-name drove a tortured soul to 
seek for other refuge, or to pursue a less selfish 
devotion. Deeper motives need hardly be sought 
to explain the resolution, however sudden, which 
led her to abandon Paris, home, and friends, 
and at least for a time, with her own kindred and 
in the midst of fields and deep woods, to ensue 
some rest for a disquieted spirit, balm for her 
bruised soul. Possibly there was the additional 
hope that the airs of home might renew her health 
and the vital powers, and so exercise a happy 
influence on the sight. Late in August, at all 
events, the master of Champrond was called upon 
to mask whatever surprise accompanied his vision 
of a travelling carriage from which came forth the 
sister who, these almost forty years, seemed to 



42 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

have laid aside all memory of a road leading to 
the ancient home of their race. 

The attitude of the Marquise to her family 
clearly displays her changeable humour and con- 
tradictory nature. Her letters to friends seldom 
mention a relation otherwise than in a spirit of 
indifference little removed from hostility. " I have 
a nephew in Paris, the son of my eldest brother, 
Monsieur de Vichy. He lives with my brother 
the treasurer, and I seldom set eyes on one or 
the other." And again, " My Vichy nephews are 
with me. They are just now in the next room, 
and I'm singularly anxious to be rid of them." 
We shall shortly notice a letter to the Duchesse 
de Luynes, full of a like contemptuous tone, this 
time for the writer's brother and his wife. Letters 
from the Vichy side breathe reciprocal sentiments. 
My sisters d'Aulan and du Deffand are "a couple 
of Megaeras " is Gaspard's crude remark. Other 
letters have, none the less, recently come to light, 
tender phrases in which, such as are seldom heard 
from Madame du Deffand, but which wear every ap- 
pearance of sincerity, must lead us to suppose that 
she cherished a larger attachment for her family than 
it was her cue to confess before her Parisian friends. 
" Be sure to tell them," she writes to the Vichys' 
secretary, Abbe Denis, " that I wish to devote my 
last days to them. I would fain meet the end thus, 
for I should certainly be far happier in their midst 
than among people for not one of whom do I really 
care, and in whose company I find no interest." 
To the Marquis de Vichy himself she writes, under 



RELATIONS WITH HER FAMILY 43 

a later date : " If only my age allowed of such 
things, I should not hesitate for a moment about 
coming to find you. I can assure you that my 
feelings in your regard are rather those of a loving 
mother than of the simple aunt that I am." Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse confirms the reality of 
these sentiments. " She is tenderly interested in 
anything that concerns you. . . . She speaks her 
mind sincerely and freely, because she considers 
you just the people to profit by such candour. 
You must not, therefore, be either remorseful or 
disturbed, for you are more than pardoned — you 
are her beloved ones." 

It seems tolerably clear that Madame du 
Deffand arrived at Champrond with the best in- 
tentions towards its inmates, and that she began 
by sparing no efforts to maintain a good under- 
standing. " The whole province," she tells Madame 
de Luynes shortly after her departure from the 
Chateau, " will bear witness to my intentions in 
their regard. I praised everything, adapted my- 
self to their habits ; far from causing trouble in 
the house, my servants did far more for them than 
did their own. Finally, Madame," she concludes, 
not without a touch of malice, " what can better 
prove to you how welcome they made me, and 
how they counted on my friendship, than the readi- 
ness and pleasure with which they accepted the 
little presents that I was moved to make them ? " 
Such excellent conduct was perhaps partly dictated 
by diplomatic considerations. Nothing but spon- 
taneous attraction drew the visitor's attention, from 



44 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

the moment of her arrival, to the poor and lonely 
girl, living as little more than a stranger under a 
roof which she must almost have counted her own, 
and all whose pride could not hide her sufferings. 
"I soon saw," writes the Marquise, "that she did 
not love her life too well, and often had tears be- 
hind her lashes." The restraint with which Julie 
suffered was doubtless the first cause of Madame 
du Deffand's attention, later of her sympathy. 
Frequent talks soon led to confidences, and it was 
not long before the elder woman's keen eye came 
to recognise one of the finest natures which it had 
yet been her. fortune to discover. 

Julie's personal appearance had little to do with 
her singular powers of attraction. Her best friends 
are quite frank on this point. Thus d'Alembert 
writes to her, " I never mention your face, for you 
set no store by it yourself." Guibert is even more 
direct in his L' Eloge d' Eliza. "Her last claim 
was to beauty, yet this plainness did not repel at 
even the first glance. It seemed perfectly natural 
at a second, and vanished when she opened her 
lips." Guibert, of course, did not know her until 
her thirty-eighth year. She was then sadly dis- 
figured by small-pox. Madame du Deffand, on the 
contrary, first met her when barely twenty, and if 
her features were irregular, the girl's appearance 
was then sufficiently pleasant. The little head, 
well set on a fine neck, was crowned with an 
abundance of brown hair. The face was oval, 
and the nose fine, though a trifle turned-up ; the 
mouth a little full, but frank. Her black eyes were 



JULIE AT TWENTY 45 

strangely expressive, with an air of deep thought- 
fulness — "her mother's look, with a touch of 
added liveliness.". 

Tall and slender, yet of a good figure, her dis- 
tinction of carriage was in some contrast to the 
simplicity of her dress. All her motions were 
graceful. She walked with an air. But the point 
upon which all contemporaries insist is the extra- 
ordinary interest of her features — sensitive, never 
at rest, reflecting as in a clear glass every move- 
ment of her spirit, all the sensations of her mind. 
''I have seen," exclaims Guibert, "faces moved by 
passion, pleasure, high spirits, or sorrow ; but of what 
a thousand shades was I ignorant until we met." 
Gay or serious, ironical or passionate ; now ex- 
quisitely yielding, a moment later the fragile surface 
scarcely veiling the latent deeps of power and 
energy ; ever full of life and sympathy, — she claimed 
the attention of the most indifferent, and uncon- 
sciously became the focus of any party, the single 
preoccupation of all who found themselves in her 
company. Guibert may be quoted again : ** I have 
seen her electrify apathy, and raise a moderate 
mind to her own level. . . . ' You give life to 
marble,' I have told her, ' and matter thinks in 
your hands.' " 

Doubtless, this power over other minds was the 
fruit of her own intense life. At the age when 
womanhood has not yet absorbed the child, to 
which life is still unreal and love unknown, an 
almost flame-like purity surrounds a girl, and instils 
"inexpressible interest" into her lightest word. 



46 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

The moment is all her care ; she is interested in 
nothing by halves. The modulations of her voice 
half betray the secrets of a soul which, as Julie her- 
self bears witness, are too intense and too delicate 
for her to dare entrust them to the treacherous inter- 
pretation of speech. " How utterly words fail to 
convey what one really feels ! The brain finds 
sounds, but the soul cries out for a new language. 
Indeed, but I feel more than there are separate 
words to utter!" But nature is just in her com- 
pensations, and if one of the secrets of a girl's 
charm at this ao^e is the orift which she can make 
of her soul, the way to her heart may be found in 
the same direction. Tenderness alone evokes real 
confidence. Sensitive as she is to a charming 
manner or seductive wit, she responds far more 
truly to a little self-surrender, trust, genuine affec- 
tion. This is the real key ; without it the finest 
qualities fail to reach her true self. It explains 
Julie's later criticism of Thomas.^ " He is the most 
virtuous, the most sensible, even the most eloquent 
of men. His greatest fault is that he is incapable of 
stupidity. For myself, I am both always stupid 
and — Heaven be praised! — have no need to confess 
it ! " The delicacy of sensation proper to this age 
enabled the girl to perceive the real worth of those 
who lavish protestations of friendship and offers 
of help. Her standard for judging men is their 
feeling rather than conduct. Once more, in Julie's 
own words, " I estimate intentions as others value 
actions." 

^ Author of UEloge des Femmes. 



HER CHARACTER 47 

Sensibility of this kind, amounting often to a 
state of exaltation, was curiously allied with quali- 
ties of the most dissimilar aspect. After Marmon- 
tel's " the quickest brain, most passionate soul and 
inflammable imagination, allied since Sappho died," 
one is a little surprised to discover, in the same 
person, a fund of reasonableness and sound sense 
able to resist the impulses of this ardent heart 
in all but its most crucial motions. The grand 
originality of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, the 
quality which makes her a unique character, is pre- 
cisely this astonishing mixture of heat with self- 
containment, passion with the sense of proportion, 
blind haste and prevision ; of a soul all impulse 
with a reflective mind. 

Finally, precious as were these gifts. Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse was also mistress of that 
without which the rest would have lost their charm. 
She was perfectly natural, eminently sincere. I do 
not here speak of that truth in word, that in- 
stinctive feeling for right which, she tells us, makes 
any reticence as impossible as a lie where one for 
whom she cares is concerned. This is that rarer 
sincerity born of true harmony between the soul 
and the visible conduct of a life. " Whether it 
were heart or brain which stirred her, gesture, 
features, the very tones of her voice moved in 
perfect accord with her words," is the testimony 
of one of her friends. She does herself equal 
justice in this letter — no one has ever described 
herself better or with more impartiality than Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse — " You know a woman who 



48 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

has never in her life been granted those charms of 
face, or the graces, which please, interest, or touch, 
and yet this person has succeeded better and won 
a thousand times more love than she could ever 
have aspired to. And, would you know the cause 
of this, it is just that she always went down to the 
truth of things, was herself true in all things." Or, 
again, " Tell me all the hard things you think of 
me, and I can assure you that some will still be left 
for me to say, for I know myself pretty well. . . . 
I seem to displease myself a good deal more than 
I displease others — a proof that I know myself 
better than others know me." 

Such a medal has its reverse side, and these 
qualities have their defects. She can be as sud- 
denly fascinated as she is prone to unreasoning 
dislikes. Extreme sensibility now depresses, now 
renders her susceptible, for her imagination riots 
in exaeaferation. If she loves with all her heart, 
her friends find that much is required of them. 
Some complain that her affection is an exacting 
master. The passion with which she enters upon 
anything disturbs her judgment, and leads to frank 
injustice at times. There are moments when she 
can seem no longer mistress of herself, witness 
the confession, " My soul has a continual fever, 
with fiercer hours which often bring me to 
the threshold of delirium." These dangerous 
possibilities, from which she was after all the 
prime sufferer, showed themselves particularly in 
later years, when misfortune and sickness had 
come upon her. At this early stage in life they 



THE MARQUISE MEETS JULIE 49 

were present, but had not come to power. Too 
early trouble had matured without embittering her 
character. " I knew sorrow at an early hour, and 
it has this of gain— that one escapes many follies 
in consequence. I was formed by the grand- 
master of our race, misfortune." 

Somewhat as I have drawn her, Madame du 
Deffand doubtless found Julie de Lespinasse, while 
the couple walked and talked in this season of 
autumn under the leafy canopy of the drives in 
the park at Champrond. Contact with this young 
spirit, this warmly responsive and ardent soul, 
slowly thawed the ice of that habitual scepticism 
which chilled even the most real of the old 
Marquise's affections. Her interest in the sad 
lot of an orphan was fortified by her admiration 
for such a treasure of understanding. Thus she 
writes, after leaving Champrond: "You have lots 
of wits ; you are alert and you can feel. These 
qualities will keep you charming just so long as you 
condescend to follow your nature and avoid pre- 
tentiousness and complexity." She adds a further 
exhortation. Julie is carefully to guard that quality 
wherein the Marquise finds the charm and very 
adornment of youth — her spontaneity, that in- 
genuous simplicity, that transparency of the soul, 
which bring it to pass that one may read the 
happenings within her as through a sheet of pure 
glass. 

Doubtless there now came to her the vague 
feeling that by binding to her destiny this young 
being so brimful of vitality and affection, she 

D 



50 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

should find the one cure for the chronic weari- 
ness that devoured her, the depression against 
which she eternally and as vainly struggled, like 
so many other women of the time. This depres- 
sion is none of that false brood, vulgar and to 
be combated by obvious means, the fruit of 
sloth and the want of occupation, voluntary or 
enforced, of the body or the soul, but the pro- 
found weariness that is born of an empty heart 
and sore despite, the " ashes on the tongue " 
which follow an inordinate pursuit of pleasure, 
the disillusionment of an existence bereft of its 
last ideal, without belief and without a real in- 
terest. A lesser disgust may find expression in 
yawns and complaints ; this brings tears and 
despair, the conviction, wherewith Madame du 
Deffand was cursed, that life is capable of but 
one real trouble — " the fact of existence itself." 
Among all her intelligent friends, not the wisest 
was ever able to comprehend this state of mind. 
Voltaire himself, receiving the confidence of her 
woes, takes up his pen to ease them in this 
fashion: "Madame, I will make search for all 
that can, perhaps, amuse you, for to be amused 
is the end of our every aspiration. . . . To be 
constantly serious with oneself is out of all belief 
If nature had not made us a trifle frivolous, we 
should be truly unhappy. The one reason why 
most of us have not long since hanged ourselves 
is that we are thus frivolous." Her friends all 
speak in the like strain, and one can imagine 
her ironical smile as she receives consolations 



THEIR DISSIMILAR CHARACTERS 51 

of which she writes : '* For the health of this my 
soul, pretty infusions of lime-flowers ; camomile 
and white syrup for the body — truly a very holy- 
water, and proof against the devil's best tempta- 
tions." It is surely hard not to excuse her the 
chill disdain that thus judges the majority of these 
friends. ** I live with certain amiable persons, 
possessed of humane and compassionate qualities. 
Thus is there born the semblance of friendship, 
and herewith I do content me." 

President Henault, years afterwards, writes to 
Julie, " In every respect you are yourself, and 
comparable with no one else." This dissimilarity 
from the type of her times assuredly counted for 
much in her attraction for Madame du Deffand. 
Had she indeed found the companion of her 
dreams, the woman who could enter into her 
misery, and bring new warmth to her heart ? 
Would not this young person infuse into her life, 
so empty, useless, and lost to all desires, a hope 
of the coming years, a taste of that draught which 
woman drinks deep when children are born unto 
her ? Thoughts of this kind indubitably seem to 
have moved in Madame du Deffand's brain, to 
have amounted to an idea of adoption. Circum- 
stances were certainly propitious. We know that 
Julie was passing through a direful mental struggle. 
She confided her cares to the Marquise. "She 
told me that she could not possibly remain with 
Monsieur and Madame du Vichy, who had long 
treated her in the harshest and most humiliating 
fashion. Her patience was exhausted." More 



52 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

than a year previously she had told Madame de 
Vichy of her wish to leave Champrond, and 
although she consented to postpone the breach 
for a few months out of deference to her hostess, 
it was now impossible for her to endure any more 
of the scenes to which she was daily forced to 
submit. Therefore, concluded the girl, it was 
her intention to seek refuge in a convent at Lyons, 
not as a nun, since no reflection could persuade 
her of a call to that, but as a simple boarder. 
Thus she would find her independence, and yet 
enjoy the considerable advantages to be derived 
from so pious an abode. Her mother had left 
her an annuity of a hundred crowns. If this 
were not enough, Camille d'Albon would remedy 
the deficiency. Julie had no doubt of his readiness 
so to do. 

Madame du Deffand asserts that she at first 
opposed this project, to which her brother and 
sister-in-law evinced the liveliest objection. Gas- 
pard, indeed, protested that it was "nothing to 
him," but that his wife took it greatly to heart, and 
he desired to spare her the pain of it. Both were 
certainly afraid of the talk that their neighbours 
would make over so brusque a rupture. The 
Marquise, persuaded to act as their ambassador to 
Julie, began by dwelling on the monotony of convent 
life, the annoyance that she must incur " by going to 
live in a town where certain things most disagree- 
able to herself were matters of common notoriety," 
the privations to be undergone if Count d'Albon 
refused to open his purse for her, and other 



o 



JULIE LEAVES CHAMPROND 5 

arguments of the same kind. All this eloquence 
was, however, rendered nugatory by the manner 
in which the orator concluded her discourse with 
a new suggestion. Why should Julie bury her- 
self at Lyons when Paris contained the Convent 
of Saint Joseph, and the convent held ample room 
for two ? Two lonely women might do worse 
than enter into an alliance when they found each 
other as sympathetic as in the present case. True, 
the temptress did no more than breathe the sug- 
gestion into Julie's ears on the eve of her departure, 
but the simple words shone as might a ray of sun- 
light in a starless night. " It seemed to me that 
it might be the happiest possible solution for her." 
The idea could not be carried out on the spot, but 
they would presently meet again at Lyons, and 
until then it was possible to correspond. " She 
begged me of my kindness to write to her, and 
to let her write to me. I was glad enough ! " 
Above all, the pair entered into a solemn com- 
pact of silence. 

Towards the close of October, Camille d'Albon, 
unable to come himself, despatched a trusty servant 
to act escort to his sister on her journey. The 
hour of leaving Champrond had struck. The part- 
ing provoked more emotions than need have been 
expected. Monsieur and Madame de Vichy 
appeared really moved. They conjured Julie 
" not to leave them altogether," at least to leave 
them with the hope that she would pass her 
summers under their roof. Julie was also deeply 
moved. Despite her injuries, she confessed genuine 



54 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

aftection for these so near relatives whose life she 
had shared for four years. Later letters from her 
pen leave no doubt of the reality and strength of a 
feeling that never left her. The children loudly 
bewailed their comrade and second mother ; the 
servants could not restrain their tears. The noise 
of her heavy carriage, as it rolled from the gates, 
seemed to bear away the good cheer of the house 
and the central figure of its hearth. 

Whatever the result of this departure upon the 
rest of those who remained behind, one sojourner 
at Champrond could not survive it. The peaceful 
life of the countryside lost all its charm for the 
Marquise du Deffand ; a family existence became 
intolerable. D'Alembert's letter of December 4th 
shows this clearly. "Your last letter clearly 
demonstrates that Champrond has been no cure. 
Your soul seems sick unto death." A few days 
later he varies the phrase. " Paris bored you, and 
you thought to find yourself happier at Champrond. 
You went there, and you are depressed anew. . . ." 
Brief as was the interval between these letters, the 
latter found the Marquise already moved to Macon, 
as guest of the Bishop, de Lort de Serignan de 
Valras, "a rarely good friend and as congenial as 
man can be, his tantrums notwithstanding, and they 
are a sad interruption to talk. He swears that it is 
I who am carried away, but what does it matter 
when one concludes by being as good friends as 
ever ! " From Macon, as from Champrond, Madame 
du Deffand exchanged continual letters with Julie, 
and the famous idea was frequently in evidence. 



HER LIFE AT LYONS 55 

The period of Julie's stay at Lyons is one of the 
obscurest phases in her story. No research has 
been able to reveal so much as the name of the 
convent in which she resided, but it seems a lawful 
surmise that, at first at all events, the quiet life 
pleased her, for when the Marquise came to visit 
her in the spring, and renewed her offer of a home 
in Paris, the girl hesitated long over a decision. 
This occurred early in April. Madame du Deffand 
spent ten days in Lyons, and Julie never left her 
side during that time. " She comes to me at eleven 
o'clock, and never stirs till she is compelled to 
return to the convent at six." Anxious as she was 
to win the girl's acceptance, the Marquise stated 
the whole case loyally. Julie must understand the 
misconstructions and annoyances almost certain to 
follow her appearance in Paris; "the impertinent 
gossip" of which she would be the subject, the 
many little petty annoyances inseparable from such 
a transplantation into a society which in tone, habits, 
and the personalities to be encountered, would be 
so utterly new. The Marquise dwelt upon these 
considerations, but she also detailed the various 
ways in which she hoped to soften their rigours 
for her friend. Finally, she did not spare her criti- 
cism of the girl's character. Julie required too 
much of others, lacked self-control, was incorrigibly 
suspicious, as witness her more than distaste 
for all whose conduct appeared to her artificial, 
even no more than adroit ! Julie listened duti- 
fully. The lecture evoked a species of disquiet 
in her, a presentiment which moved her soul to 



56 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

question what had thus far been the supreme attrac- 
tion of the scheme. 

Cardinal de Tencin, quite recently invested with 
the Archbishopric of Lyons, and an old friend of 
Madame du Deffand, called on the latter during the 
course of this debate. Interested in this new 
dweller within his diocese, he inquired about her. 
The Marquise's replies increased his interest. He 
promised to exercise his influence on behalf of 
Julie, who tasted the first-fruits of such exalted 
protection in the matter of a private room now 
put at her disposal by the authorities at the con- 
vent. The Cardinal shortly called on Madame du 
Deffand a second time, and at once returned to the 
subject of this attractive young person. "He said 
that I (the Marquise) ought certainly to secure her 
companionship, for she would be both useful and 
necessary in the unfortunate circumstances that 
threatened me. Moreover, my relatives and Mon- 
sieur d'Albon ought to desire the same arrange- 
ment, since nothing could more certainly assure 
them of her safety. We discussed all the incon- 
veniences of such an arrangement, and could find 
none which was not both easy to foresee and to 
avoid." Thus encouraged, Madame du Deffand 
had made up her own mind when she left Lyons 
about April 15th. Julie was not so satisfied; she 
demanded time for further consideration, and the 
Marquise had perforce to acquiesce. 

The project remained thus indefinite for 
several months, the girl lying hid within the 
walls of her convent, while Madame divided her 



HER FEAR OF PARIS 57 

time between Macon and Champrond, each proving 
an equally unsatisfactory place of sojourn. Her 
friends urged a return to Paris, and spared no 
efforts to paint the delights awaiting her there. 
"Why on earth do you fear to return home? 
With your reputation and income, how imagine 
that you can lack acquaintances ? I do not use the 
word friends, for I know the rarity of such folk. 
But I say acquaintances, and agreeable acquaint- 
ances ! A good supper buys one any guests you 
please, and, if it adds sauce to the spectacle, men 
may smile at their guests — afterwards ! " D'Alem- 
bert was the painter of this genial picture, but he 
painted in vain. The secret torment of her spiritual 
isolation, enhanced as she says by "the eternal 
dungeon " of a blindness now almost absolute, filled 
her with inexpressible terrors. She caught at any 
excuse for delaying a new imprisonment within the 
cold walls of her house, so bare of any comforting 
affection. From June she post-dates the return to 
August, and only the chance of finding d'Alem- 
bert at the Chateau du Boulay, the house of their 
common friend Monsieur du Trousset d'Hericourt, 
sends her back to the capital under his escort in 
October. She had not been there many weeks be- 
fore a letter from Julie brought her dearest hopes 
to their apparent nadir. 

Bred as she had been in the quiet of an obscure 
countryside, Julie's fears of the Parisian whirlpool 
increased daily. She hesitated more and more to 
take the final plunge. " The grand world," viewed 
from the convent, seemed a place of singular terrors 



58 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

in which she would find herself an exile, lost to all 
foothold, even more alone than in her present 
position. Each prospect owned its terrors, but 
the known was surely a lesser evil than the un- 
known. Prolonged consideration led back to her 
first idea — she would call upon Camille d'Albon to 
increase her annuity sufficiently to enable her to 
remain at Lyons, there to remain lost to the world 
in a quiet yet independent corner of her own. If 
her brother failed her, but only so, she would 
accept Madame du Defifand's offer. Great as was 
her disappointment, the Marquise replied with a 
fine dignity and self-control. " I am sure," she 
wrote, " that Monsieur d'Albon will agree to 
furnish you with what you require. ... So my 
hopes fade into the distance ! But if he fails you, 
remember that you are still free to take me at my 
word, and I sincerely trust that you will then de- 
cide to accept my offer." Julie must not doubt the 
permanence of her good-will. "To be frank and 
express one's real beliefs is surely no fault, but 
rather the best course of action." "Far from 
bearing the girl a grudge she, therefore, applauds 
her sincerity," and much as she fears that the 
stream has carried her hopes away, "she will not 
love her the less for that." '* Farewell, my queen," 
she concludes ; " you can show our friend (Cardinal 
de Tencin) this letter. I have no secrets from him 
in respect of yourself." 

Having thus recovered her freedom, Julie no 
longer hesitates to make her demands upon Count 
d'Albon. She did this frankly enough, giving him 



HER BROTHER'S COUNSEL 59 

an outline of the argument which we have traced, 
and concluding with an exhortation "to give me an 
answer to the point." The reply came quickly 
enough. It was both very much to the point and 
negative at all points, for while the young Count 
was completely opposed to Paris and the idea of 
living with Madame du Deffand, he as clearly gave 
Julie to understand that neither now nor hereafter 
must she count on any addition to the annuity left 
her by her mother. Hard as this last may seem, 
Camille's attitude is explained and justified by his 
financial position. His father was still alive, and 
what small income he inherited direct from the 
Countess d'Albon had already been seriously cur- 
tailed by a series of unfortunate speculations. 
Moreover he had, in 1750, married a young lady 
of small fortune and mediocre nobility ; a marriage 
justified more by considerations of the heart than of 
the brain. A son had already arrived to increase 
his obligations. Four other children presently 
followed. " I will show you exactly how I stand," 
we read in one of his letters, " and you will see how 
impossible it is for me to give you any financial 
help. I have children to provide for, and provision 
of this sort is not found by the roadside. Placed 
as I am, the advancement of my children must be 
secured by other means than the expenditure of 
money." These are good reasons, and perhaps 
Julie did not clearly comprehend how true they 
were, for she was deeply hurt and irritated both by 
her brother's refusal to help her, and the manner in 
which it was made. Her intense spirit, carried 



6o JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

away by a too lively imagination, saw in it a dis- 
avowal of their alliance, his denial of the bond of 
their common blood. Disappointment blotted out 
her many vows of eternal friendship toward the 
friend of her youth, and filled their place with a dull 
and bitter hostility that soon extended to all that 
side of the family, and that has left numerous 
traces in her will no less than in letters. Even 
twenty years later Abel de Vichy was to read, " I 
told myself that all my life long I should have 
reason to complain of all who bore the name of 
d'Albon, or belonged to the family in any way. 
This, I was sure, was my destiny." 

The result of Julie's disappointment was imme- 
diately seen. She would exchange her provincial 
existence for a Parisian life, her quiet convent room 
for the worldly mansion of Saint Joseph. The 
Marquise was, of course, immensely delighted, and 
replied forthwith : "I trust, my queen, that you 
will not find it necessary to change your mind 
again. No more fears, I pray you ! I trust that 
May will see us settled in mutual content, me with 
you and you with me." The affair was by no 
means concluded, however, for the first whisper 
of Julie's resolution roused both families. The 
Vichys and d'Albons joined in a universal out- 
cry. Now as always, they are afraid lest she may 
be scheming to efface the taint upon her name, and, 
in the words of the Duchesse de Luynes, " they fear 
that Paris may give her the counsel and means to 
obtain a position^ Madame du Deffand's pre- 
cautions inspire them with no more trust than 



THE MARQUISE CHANGES FRONT 6i 

Julie's written promises to "forget who she is," 
and to be no party to "even the smallest attempt." 
So importunate do^ they become, indeed, that the 
Marquise changes front in her replies, and bids 
them rely on the extremely problematical nature of 
such "attempt" rather than on Julie's promises. 
" I am not sufficiently foolish to suppose that any 
such reasons as friendship, gratitude, or fear, would 
prevent her endeavouring to recover her status, if 
the prospect seemed at all hopeful. But since there 
can be no hope, and she sees this as clearly as any 
of us, I have no reason to believe that she will 
embark upon such a folly." 

Madame du Deffand, one cannot but observe, 
knew little of her friend's proud and upright nature 
when she wrote thus. Under no circumstances, 
not even when her life's happiness was at stake, 
could Julie be capable of dealing falsely with her 
plighted word. The pride of this passage, written 
towards the close of her life, is fully justified. 
" How undeservedly have I been praised for 
moderation, nobility, disinterestedness, and the 
pretended sacrifices made by me to my mother's 
memory and the house of d'Albon. Heavens ! but 
I deserve none of your compliments, good fools ! 
My soul was not designed for the pettiness which 
fills your own. Made wholly for the joys of lov- 
ing and being loved, I have never needed either 
strength or honesty to enable me to bear with 
poverty, and to disdain the benefits of vanity." 

The violence with which the two families op- 
posed the scheme, placed Julie and the Marquise 



62 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

in a sufficiently delicate position. The former 
especially, unknown and unsupported as she was, 
certainly had reason to doubt the welcome which 
she might expect from Parisian society under such 
conditions. Madame du Deffand, fully alive to the 
point, exercised consummate address in combating 
the danger. Her friends take the field a month 
before Julie's arrival : first Tencin, a favourite at 
court, and feared by all on account of his audacity 
and power for intrigue ; then Renault, the Queen's 
friend, and the best known man in Paris. The 
ground was scarcely prepared by these means, 
when Julie's protector turned directly to a quarter 
support from which alone would suffice to break 
down all resistance. The Duchesse de Luynes, 
always an indulgent aunt to the Marquise, enjoyed 
a recognised authority in the family and society 
alike, thanks to her rank, character, and her known 
intimacy with Marie Leczinska. To gain such 
an ally was as good as to win the battle, and 
Madame du Deffand spared no diplomacy, no effort 
of her pen, to win this aunt to her side. 

Nearly all the facts that I have recounted find 
place in the incomparably able letter pleading this 
cause, a veritable masterpiece of policy and in- 
sinuating eloquence, careful and studied throughout, 
and packed with appeals to old memories. Mon- 
sieur and Madame de Vichy are never reproached 
or made the objects of any direct accusation, but an 
inquisition by rule would be a thousand times less 
overwhelming than this nicely calculated string of 
suggestions and discreet regrets. 



THE DUCHESSE DE LUYNES 63 

Appeals to the heart of the Duchesse recur 
continually. " I am a blind woman, Madame. I 
am praised for my courage. But although I shall 
gain nothing by yielding to despair, I certainly feel 
all the pains of my situation, and nothing can be 
more natural than to try and lessen them. And 
what better help can I afford myself than by 
bringing some friend into my house, a companion 
who will relieve the pangs of my loneliness ! I 
have always feared that ; it overwhelms me utterly 
now." Such is an exordium taken from the letter. 
The peroration is no less pathetic : "I am not 
looking for a servant. My need is for a real com- 
panion, and a possible companion is not easy to 
find, as you know. I confess that I shall not relish 
annoying the family. ... I shall vex a prejudice 
of theirs, and obtain a happiness which is essential 
to me. Really, there is no proportion between the 
two things. Madame, I have opened my whole 
heart to you. You love me, and I am unhappy ; 
but your compassion is no less signal than is your 
righteousness." 

Madame de Luynes' reply, by no means long 
delayed, was reserved and full of wise counsel, but 
might none the less be read as a species of assent. 
Madame du Deffand chose to take it as such. 
She adroitly overwhelmed her aunt with thanks, 
and at once proceeded to action. 

The Archbishop of Lyons was begged to super- 
vise Julie's preparations for the journey. She 
herself forthwith prepared Parisian opinion, ac- 
cording to the judicious campaign long since 



64 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

prepared in her own mind. " I shall give out 
. . . that you are a young provincial lady who 
desires to enter a convent, and that I have offered 
you shelter until your choice is made. ... I shall 
always avoid the appearance of seeking to intro- 
duce you. I propose to raise your value, and 
if you really know me you should never be dis- 
quieted by the manner in which I shall treat your 
self-conceit. . . . The world must know your worth 
and qualities first of all, and this the help of myself 
and my friends will easily secure for you." All 
Paris, indeed, was shortly aware that a particularly 
interesting young woman would presently become 
a resident at Saint Joseph's. If an air of mystery 
clung to the new-comer, her attractions were cer- 
tainly not diminished by this. 

These dispositions made, the Marquise in- 
formed Julie of the result of her efforts, and pressed 
her to set out forthwith. " I have just received 
my answer from Madame de Luynes, and have no 
fault to find with it. I trust that I shall never 
have reason to regret my efforts on your behalf, 
and that you would never have decided to join me 
unless your mind were fully made up. . . . So much 
I had to say. I will only add, that your coming, 
and the prospect of your companionship, are an 
inexpressible joy to me." The letter ends with 
these lines, which surely bear the stamp of real feel- 
ing : "Farewell, my queen. Hasten your packing, 
and come to be the joy and consolation of my life. 
It will be no fault of mine if that hope does not 
prove reciprocal." 



JULIE DECIDES FOR PARIS 65 

The Attorney-General of Lyons and his wife 
happened to be journeying to Paris at this time, 
and at the instance of Cardinal de Tencin under- 
took to safe - conduct their interesting fellow- 
traveller. Thus, one day in the latter half of April 
1754, the Lyons coach drew up before the gate of 
the Convent of Saint Joseph, to leave there a girl 
of about twenty years of age, somewhat provin- 
cial in appearance, a trifle nervous and frightened, 
but a girl none the less happy, and with a heart 
big with hope. 



CHAPTER III 

The Convent of Saint Joseph — Intimate life of the Marquise du Deffand — 
Influence of the new life on Julie — Her first friends — The Marechale de 
Luxembourg — Preponderant influence of Madame du Defl'and on the 
intellectual formation of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Similarity in 
character and spirit — The honeymoon of their alliance — Good feelings 
endangered by instinctive coquetry of Julie — Her first conquests: the 
Chevalier d'Aydie and President Henault — Her first romance : Viscount 
de Taafe— Prudent intervention of Madame du Deffand — Her moderation 
throughout. 

The House of the Daughters of Saint Joseph of 
Providence filled the spacious site now covered by 
the various buildings of the Ministry for War. To 
the left of the Hotel de Brienne, to-day the Minis- 
ter's official residence, stood a building separated 
from the main pile by a little court opening on 
Rue Saint Dominique. Here, apart from the nuns' 
own quarters, a certain number of discreetly elegant 
apartments were let out to women of the world — 
unmarried ladies, widows, or such as lived apart 
from their husbands. While covered by the mantle 
of their pious neighbours, these tenants were in all 
other respects free to live as they might desire. 
They had their own servants, and owed no obedience 
to the rules of the convent. 

Madame du Deffand lived in the apartments 
formerly occupied, after her flight from Court, by 
Madame de Montespan, the protectress of the 
house. A relic of her tenancy were her arms 
still ornamenting the central stone of the great 

66 



THE CONVENT OF SAINT JOSEPH 67 

chimney. The quarters were bright and comfort- 
able, although of no especial size. " I have a very 
pretty and exceedingly convenient apartment," the 
Marquise writes to Voltaire. Records of the time 
give an inventory of the drawing-room and its 
furnishing. Deep sofas and little couches, artfully 
disposed between small tables piled high with books, 
formed a constant invitation to familiar discussion, 
and clearly displayed the tastes of their owner. 

Larger parties met in this room. A less formal 
and more simple apartment, contiguous to the larger 
piece, was the scene of more intimate gatherings. 
At the corner of its fireplace stood a great chair, the 
Marquise's famous " throne," the high back of which 
curved forward until the top formed a veritable 
canopy above her head. Several seats and a book- 
case were arranged close by, while a cabinet in the 
angle of the wall displayed some fine pieces of china. 
A deep recess at the back of the room contained a 
bed draped with flowered chintz, and a little dial on 
the wall witnessed the passing hours. This chamber 
was really Madame du Deffand's bedroom. Her 
apartment was completed by an antechamber, 
dining-room, a small room for Mademoiselle 
Devreux — a devoted body -servant of the Mar- 
quise, who was little less than her personal friend — 
and another chamber for Wiart, factotum, butler, 
secretary, and occasional reader. This famous 
lodging Madame du Deffand, in her own words, 
"never left except to sup out." Julie at first 
occupied a room within the convent proper, but 
not many months elapsed before her protectress 



68 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

provided the girl with another apartment, less 
spacious than her own, but in the same building, 
and on the next story. 

The mistress of the scene is described by 
Madame de Genlis as '* a little woman, thin, pale, 
and white-haired." She adds, that her head seemed 
out of proportion large for the body beneath, and 
preserved few traces of its earlier beauty. Madame 
de Luynes records that "those who knew her in 
her youth remember that she possessed the most 
beautiful complexion imaginable. Her presence 
was fine, and the expression of her mobile features 
highly agreeable. Her face was wont to seem 
singularly animated and intellectual, with beautiful 
eyes, keen and piercing as a bird's. The attrac- 
tiveness of this face caused one to overlook the 
faults in her hands and figure, and the quality of 
her conversation nearly hid her unfortunate trick 
of talking through her nose." At the time of 
Madame de Genlis' description the Marquise's 
face had come to wear an expression of sadness, 
occasionally of disillusion and preoccupation ; but 
give her cause to speak or listen, and the cold 
features light up, a sprite of irony and wit seems 
to fill their hollows, and the eyes, once so bright 
but now for ever dulled, acquire light from the in- 
ward fires of the mind that really gives the illusion 
of restored sight. No one, indeed, ever fashioned 
herself a more clever substitute for so priceless a 
loss. By the aid of a machine, her own invention, 
the Marquise could write rapidly and clearly. Her 
active mind acquired a species of second sight that 



MADAME DU DEFFAND 69 

enabled her to imagine persons and things, and 
describe them almost to the life. Madame Necker 
records, " She is blind in a way which scarcely lets 
us perceive it, and almost escapes her own notice." 
"The tones of a voice," adds Henault, "seem to 
provide her with an image of the thing, and she 
is as quick in seizing a point as if she possessed 
perfect sight. One might almost say that her 
sometime sisfht was an additional and needless 



sense." 



The one great change in Madame du Deffand 
consequent upon her blindness was the inability to 
endure even momentary solitude. " I should vastly 
prefer the company of the sacristan of the Minims 
to passing a single evening alone," she avows. 
Her entire day, or rather night, is taken up with 
conversation, dictation, or listening to her reader. 
At such times she sits in an armchair or the 
"throne," upon her knees two Angora cats with 
enormous ribboned collars ; animals presently re- 
placed by Tonton, most ill-conditioned of pet dogs, 
"her adoration of which increases with the number 
of persons bitten by him." The evil nature of the 
animal led to Walpole's later advice that he should 
be consigned to the Bastille daily at 5 p.m., under 
sure guard. On another occasion Walpole relates 
how " Tonton flew at Lady Barrymore, and I 
certainly thought that she would lose her eyes. 
However, he was satisfied with biting her finger. 
She was much upset, and wept copiously." Madame 
du Deffand, far too clear-sighted not to see every- 
thing correctly, knowing that she had let Tonton off 



70 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

far too lightly, proceeded to relate a story of a dog 
which had taken a mouthful out of a caller's leg. 
Its tender-hearted mistress, sadly distressed, cried 
out, " Heaven send that the poor animal does not 
suffer from his meal 1 " 

News of the outer world and the conversation 
of her friends are the Marquise's sole distractions. 
" I never leave my seat, and I never pay a visit." 
Occupations other than mental she has none, and 
this perverted existence is seldom lived by daylight ; 
a fact which surely places her in an age " when 
women sit so late that they are called lampes*' an 
age in which the author of a fashionable novel 
writes of his heroine, " She could suffer almost any 
disappointment rather than the supreme one of 
going to bed." The Marquise's day was never 
properly begun until the hours when nature counsels 
rest. Six o'clock was the earliest time at which she 
rose, and from then until far into the morning she 
received the long array of her guests. When by 
chance she sups abroad, any excuse is good enough 
to delay the hour of return. From the Opera she 
proceeds to visit the Duchesse de la Valliere, the 
Marechale de Luxembourg, President Renault. 
But this is not enough. At 2 a.m. the entire party 
is to drive round the town, because, she says, " it is 
far too early to go to bed." Horace Walpole loudly 
complains of these nocturnal habits when he chances 
to share them, notwithstanding that he finds it diffi- 
cult sufficiently to admire " the herculean frailty " 
of his septuagenarian friend. 

Madame du Deffand's supreme hour was this 



LIFE AT SAINT JOSEPH'S 71 

of supper. It is her chief joy and the affair of 
the day, "one of the four ends of creation," 
she avers, and carelessly adds, " but I have for- 
gotten the other three." Sometimes she sups 
abroad ; more usually, however, it is at home 
with three or four friends, nearly always the same. 
But once a week, on Sunday at first, afterwards 
on Saturdays, a large company sits down with 
her, and "neither fight nor avoid each other," 
diverse and often antagonistic as are their per- 
sonalities. The sole tie between them is that all 
are brilliant talkers. Never is there such talk as 
round her table. It is the sufficient luxury for 
her guests, and they are perfectly aware that the 
rest of the menu will be simple enough. The 
sauces of one of her cooks, long notorious for his 
lack of skill, were a constant insult to President 
Renault's delicate palate. " Nothing but the in- 
tention distinguishes such a fellow from a Brin- 
villiers," he writes. 

The transition from the confined life of Cham- 
prond and the convent to the sort of existence 
just outlined must have proved too surprising to 
Julie. Wonder, indeed, seems to sum up her 
first impressions. Looking back afterwards, she 
writes, "How I hate my inability to care for any- 
thing but the best, and how difificult I am to 
please ! But am I at fault, educated as I have 
been ? Madame du Deffand — I must name her 
my mistress in wit ! — President Henault, the Arch- 
bishop of Toulouse, the Archbishop of Aix, Mon- 
sieur Turgot, Monsieur d'Alembert, the Abbe de 



72 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Boismont, Monsieur de Mora — these taught me to 
think arid to talk, these condescended to find me 
of some account ! " Many of these personages 
will recur in these pages. A biographer must 
supplement the list with certain names omitted 
here, but possessed of a right to inclusion, since 
those who bore them were amonof the first to 
welcome Julie in the salon of Saint Joseph, and 
served her as guides on the first stages of a path 
bestrewn with pitfalls. The Marquis d'Usse may 
head the list. A grandson of Vauban, and thus 
a relative of the Vichys, this strange and absent- 
minded old man was certainly a trifle crazed. His 
manners were original and his conversation erratic, 
and Renault complains that " his letters are as full 
of erasures as his talk is of parentheses." None 
the less, he owned a charming wit, and was full 
of interests entirely estimable and good. " All 
the world loves him, some by natural taste, some 
because it is the correct thing ! Happy the man 
born good enough to truly appreciate him ! " As 
an habitual visitor at Saint Joseph's, the Marquis 
was not long in discovering an old friend in his 
hostess's youthful guest. He had met her when 
visiting Champrond some years before, and now 
conceived for her a devoted affection that never 
afterwards failed. 

The Chevalier d' Aydie may be as highly praised. 
At the house of the Marquise, but thirty-four years 
earlier, he had met the exquisite Aiss4 the memory 
of whom is inextricably interwoven with his own. 
Now in the sixties, but still possessed of the old 



JULIE'S NEW FRIENDS 7z 

youthful spirit and ardent heart, he was a constant 
member of Madame du Deffand's salon, where his 
often hasty but always generous tongue, and the 
passionate speech which was but a reflection of his 
deep feeling, were much appreciated. "He is all 
for the first thought," writes his hostess. " Monsieur 
de Fontenelles is credited with a second brain 
in the place of a heart. The Chevalier might be 
credited with a second heart. . . . Cross but 
never grumbling, misanthropical but never bitter, 
always true and natural in all his changes of mood, 
his very faults please, and to find him less im- 
perfect would be a real disappointment." The 
Chevalier was sixty-four when he met Julie, and 
he at once found her his second Aisse. One of 
the first to surrender to her charm, the discreet 
emotion in his old heart is echoed by the tenderly 
gentle tones of certain passages in letters to the 
Marquise. " Heaven owed you the favour which 
is bestowed on you in the care of Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse. In her you find your lost sight. Far 
greater boon, she evokes once more the goodness 
and affection proper to your nature. I congratulate 
myself on my early appreciation of her, and I beg of 
you to keep me some share in her good opinions." 

Less devoted perhaps, but no whit less useful, 
was another friend whom we see among the band 
of Julie's first acquaintance. As a peerless coun- 
sellor in things worldly, a guide second to none in 
the complicated labyrinth, full of snares and pit- 
falls, then called a salon, Mile, de Lespinasse could 
have fallen into no better hands than those of the 



74 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Marechale de Luxembourg, the woman to whom 
her contemporaries accorded the sceptre of fashion 
and the throne of good taste. Notwithstanding a 
youth so light that it scandalised even the Regent's 
court, a mixture of haughtiness, happy audacity, and 
diplomacy not only enabled her to live down the 
past, but established her as arbiter without appeal on 
all questions touching the amenities, social decorum, 
and good taste. The Due de Levis calls "her 
empire over the youth of both sexes absolute. 
Her house preserved the old tradition of high 
and easy breeding." She was only passably edu- 
cated, but possessed an infallible instinct and 
delicate taste, rarer and more precious than all 
the wisdom of this world, " perceptions to make 
men tremble," and was always able to characterise 
any lapse by just that stinging word which was 
sure to go the round of Paris next day. Yet the 
Marechale was no more feared for her harshness 
than she was sought for her charm. Paris owned 
no more pitilessly sarcastic tongue or more seduc- 
tive attractions. "Her flattery," writes the same 
witness, "is the more effective because so simple. 
Her praises seem to escape her unconsciously. 
You imagine that she is kind because her heart 
is bursting with tenderness." 

Madame de Luxembourg's attitude towards 
Julie was of this latter kind. She was a friend of 
Madame du Deffand's childhood. They had run 
almost identical courses, from gallantry to love, and 
from love to the intellectual life. Few days passed 
in which the Marechale did not call at Saint 



HER SOCIAL SUCCESS 75 

Joseph's. For her sake, almost alone, the Mar- 
quise abandoned her regular habits, and was per- 
suaded, in the season of long days, to visit her 
friends at the Chateau de Montmorency, a luxurious 
abode of which nothing now remains. Julie was 
invited to share the first of these visits after her 
arrival, a rare and envied privilege. " This is a 
great business to your aunt," she writes to Abel de 
Vichy, *' but she has been so pressed that it was 
impossible to refuse. For the matter of that, she 
need not alter her habits a bit, for Monsieur 
and Madame de Luxembourg overwhelm us with 
attentions, and their guests are all our most fre- 
quent companions at home — the President, Madame 
de Mirepoix and Madame de Boufflers, Monsieur de 
Pont de Veyle, and the rest." Not long afterwards 
Julie was again bidden to the Chateau, this time 
alone, and treated like a very daughter of the house. 
It would be difficult to over-estimate the influ- 
ence of such intercourse in forming the character 
of a young girl fresh from the depths of the pro- 
vince. Her quick wits, ready perception, and the 
power of " seeing at a glance " and " comprehend- 
ing the half-word," so envied by her friends, made 
it certain that she would miss no opportunities. 
Her manners and taste matured at the same time, 
and her perception ripened until it accepted nothing 
short of the best and the finest of its kind. The 
critical precepts of the Marechale perhaps influ- 
enced her too deeply. She had not been long at 
Saint Joseph's before friends were to reproach her 
with undue exclusiveness, and a disproportionate 



76 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

insistence on conformity to the conventions. "From 
the first," writes d'Alembert, "you were as much at 
your ease, as completely at home in the most bril- 
liant and critical society, as though you had been 
born to such surroundings. You felt their ways 
before you knew them, and thus showed yourself 
possessed of a nicety and refinement of tact that 
are rare indeed. In a word, you seemed to guess 
the language of what are called the best circles. . . ." 
But he adds only a few lines later, "Your con- 
sciousness of this — may I say, your self-consciousness 
of a somewhat extraordinary gift? — perhaps leads 
you into the fault of attaching too much import- 
ance to the like in other people. Nothing less than 
the most genuine qualities obtains forgiveness from 
those who have none, but on this really minor 
point you have always shown yourself pitiless to a 
degree." Perhaps no better summary of Mademoi- 
selle de Lespinasse's virtues and failings at this 
time can be given than this rhymed portrait by a 
member of the salon of Saint Joseph's : — 

" Your judgment is faultless, my dear ! 
Your manners perfection, we hear ! 
You are witty and joyful, 
Polite, and all grace, but 
Your temper unequal 
A friend may at times cut. 

" Your soul, full of motions. 
Aye varies its notions ; — 
At nothing, with wrath you are mad ! 
If, next moment, you're charming 
Again, it's alarming, — 
This temple that wobbles — good — bad ! 



JULIE AND THE MARQUISE ^^ 

" This portrait to complete 
Here, shortly, I'll repeat, 
Good grammar you love overmuch. 
You discuss it, dear Lady ! 
Leave that to O'Grady, 
Content that our hearts you can touch." 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse certainly profited 
from her intercourse with the persons among whom 
she was thrown, but it is possible to remember this 
and yet allow that the grand influence upon her 
intellectual development was exercised by Madame 
du Deffand. Sincerity and common sense were at 
once her own chief virtues and those upon which 
she set most store in others. Her own character 
was eminently natural, and she aspired to a simple 
truth in all things. She required the same quali- 
ties from Julie. "Is it not intolerable," she fre- 
quently exclaims, "that truth is the one thing that 
we cannot hear ! " The least 'mannerism, the most 
innocuous trick, annoyed her to the point of 
exasperation. 

" She simply cannot endure the least artifici- 
ality, no matter of what kind," writes the girl in 
her severe portrait of the Marquise, " The viva- 
ciousness of her spirit is equalled only by her sim- 
plicity. A jest or a witticism leaves her lips as 
though it fell from them without her intent or even 
knowledge. Her most amusino^ hits are never 
underlined or emphasised by so much as a tone, so 
that it is only later, and on reflection, that one dis- 
covers their quality. Her professed horror of 
intensity or declamation, and what she calls * high 



78 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

falutin,' is carried to the extent of putting a tabu 
on all discussions of ' lofty themes ' in her presence, 
and her detractors charge her with ' hating elo- 
quence and the finer sentiments.' " She certainly- 
evinced little taste for philosophical discussion. On 
leaving a supper at Necker's house, where conver- 
sation had taken a turn in this direction, she wrote 
to Barthelemy, " I could not follow the reasoning, 
but the brawling was intolerable." Superlatives, a 
disease of the age, were her pet detestation, and 
those who laid down the law, and would hear no 
reason, were unsparingly snubbed. " I make short 
work with people," she tartly tells one of them, " since 
I learned that the world can be divided between 
the trumpers, the trumped, and the trumpeters."^ 

To her almost perfect sense of form and ex- 
pression, Madame du Deffand added excellent 
judgment and much acuteness. " Your remarks 
on common sense are quite charming," she says 
to Walpole. "No matter what may be a man's 
intellectual capacity, it soon becomes wearisome 
and a bore without this for foundation." The 
Marquise has a right to speak thus, for a clearer 
intelligence or more precise reason would be hard 
to find, so long as she is not excited. Absolute 
as is her passion, not to say intensity, where the 
feelings are concerned, she is as completely mistress 
of herself in the domain of opinions and ideas. An 
objection convinces her if properly presented, and 
no opponent can complain that she refuses to yield 

^ " Les trompeurs, les trompes et les trompettes," a play on the 
words incapable of an g,bsoltjte rendering into English, — Translator, 



THEIR PERSONAL RESEMBLANCE 79 

to argument, Madame de Genlis wrongly accuses 
her of laziness and want of conviction, but the real 
explanation of this is that she is always a prey to 
self-doubt, and so constitutionally sceptical that she 
is never certain whether she is right or no. Such 
an attitude, even if tinged with irony, invests her 
conversation with all the charm of sweetness and 
goodwill. 

A taste for sincerity, simplicity, restraint in 
speech, the sense of proportion, and a certain 
eclecticism in ideas, are as characteristic of Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse as of her friend and patron. 
The analogy is clear in the main ; it is even more 
striking when we pass to details. Both have similar 
tastes in literature and music — a passion for the 
classics, and a mistrust of all that is new. A 
feeling for nature is wanting in both. A passion 
for analysing the human mind, and a high apprecia- 
tion of the masterpieces of thought, obscure their 
perception of the beauty of life's pageant and the 
magic of colour and form. As Henault once wrote 
to the Marquise in earlier days, " You call a 
moonlit night romantic, the thought of the places 
where one met a dear friend, a splendid day — 
anything, in fact, of which the poets have used the 
word. I did not find it a cause for mirth. ... So 
be it, then ! I ask your pardon for all the streams 
passed heretofore and hereafter, for the birds their 
brothers and their cousins the elm-trees. Behold 
me cured ! You will find my letters the more 
pleasant." Mademoiselle de Lespinasse acknow- 
ledges the like failure in herself when she makes 



8o JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

this confession towards the close of her life. " I 
have always been on the move, been everywhere, 
seen everything, thought of one thing only ! A 
sick soul sees nature under one aspect only. The 
world wears crape to its eyes ! " This, also, is her 
appreciation of her friend Roucher's poem, " The 
Months." "His talent is wholly admirable, but 
how he bores one with his use of it ! Diamonds, 
gold, the rainbow, these and their like never stir my 
soul. A word of what I like, its slumbers even, 
move that part of me which lives and breathes 
more than all these riches." Madame du Deffand's 
verdict on her friend the Marquis de Saint 
Lambert's poem, "The Seasons," is an almost 
literal replica of this. "There's a trifle too much 
of purple and azure, gold, pampas, and * dusky 
boscage.' . I care little for descriptions. Paint the 
passions and please me, I like the inanimate 
world best when it is on the farther side of my 
door." 

These are no chance coincidences, for the 
similarity is unquestionable. It is the more deep 
and more easily developed, since the two women 
are partakers by birth in the faults and failures 
of a common stock. The lessons and example 
of the Marquise influence her friend, but the 
influence develops seeds sown by no aid of hers. 
The resemblance becomes yet more startling when 
a trick of the intellect, or literary and artistic tastes 
— the outer husk — are no longer the question. 
Turn to those characteristics which are inborn, 
and not to be changed by any education, and 



THEIR PERSONAL RESEMBLANCE 8i 

both women are above all, and to an almost equal 
degree, the children of passion. No one will 
contest the qualification where Julie is concerned. 
It is equally true of Madame du Deffand, notwith- 
standing a certain air of paradox that may seem to 
attach in her case. Call on her heart, and she is at 
once all fire and impulse ; and this is equally true 
whether the motive is supplied by a friend, or she 
is herself touched upon a sensitive spot, however 
lightly or innocently. " Passion," writes Julie de 
Lespinasse, " rules the most part of her decisions. 
The same people or affairs first engross and 
then disgust her, to excess in both cases. To-day 
you see her rend the praise of yesterday, laud 
its condemnations. Both contrarieties are quite 
honest, and born of the moment's impulse. She 
obeys with the best faith in the world, and believes 
that her present opinion is that which she has 
always held." The friend who knew her best 
says almost the same. "She has perfect judg- 
ment, and her actions are as completely at fault. 
She is all love or all hatred, enthusiastic to passion 
about a friend, always thirsting for love — not for 
lovers ! — and the next moment violently but openly 
hostile." Walpole also adds this exclamation : " I 
certainly do not share Madame du Deffand's opinion 
that it were better to be dead than to love no one." 
This is the real Madame du Deffand, a very 
different woman from the one depicted in her letters. 
Her apparent dryness and boasted egoism are 
simply the mask adopted by a disillusioned and 
proudly revengeful soul, ever crying for love and 

F 



82 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

unable to find it — at least, never able to believe in it. 
This key unlocks the riddle of the last bitter word 
addressed to her secretary of forty years' service, 
Wiart, when she heard him sob by her bedside. 
*' You mean to say that you really love me ? " she 
cried, surprised and stupefied to find affection and 
devotion in a quarter where she had never imagined 
that self-interest and custom could own a rival. 

This constant hunger "for love," fervid en- 
thusiasm for the pleasure of the moment, and the 
over-imaginative temperament which replaces facts 
by fancies, are equally characteristic of Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse, and the source of nearly 
all her woes. But Julie is a trifle less defiant 
than her friend, a little sweeter and more tender 
in disposition, and this finer and more delicate 
sensibility is matched with a generosity that 
readily confesses its own faults, or pardons those 
of others so soon as the first heat has passed. 
Often, indeed, she is susceptible to excess, so 
that even legitimate indignation gives way to 
affection, gratitude, or old memories. This witty 
saying about her suspicious patron could never 
be applied to herself: "It is easier to stand well 
with Providence than with her, for with her a 
venial sin blots out the memory of many careful 
years." 

I have now pushed comparisons far enough to 
show the points of contact, and how far common 
were the sympathies of the two women whom 
destiny cast into the closest intercourse. It is 
easy to foretell that this very resemblance of 



MUTUAL HOPEFULNESS S3 

character must, sooner or later, produce a profound 
antagonism. At first, however, and for many 
years, no cloud seems to have cast its shadow 
on the clear horizon. When Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse afterwards writes, "I, who was /or 
ten years a victim of her spite and tyranny," she 
unconsciously commits a real injustice. Recent 
suffering, as is its wont, has overshadowed the 
kindlier memories of early days, and she illus- 
trates her own saying : " All pain strikes deep, but 
pleasure is a bird of quick passage." The simple 
truth of the matter is, that an alliance of the kind 
has been seldom contracted under more favourable 
conditions. Its '* honeymoon " lasted longer than 
could have been expected. No evidence can be 
clearer than the words of both women. " Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse is particularly touched by 
the kind things you say of her," the Marquise 
writes to the Chevalier d'Aydie in July 1755. 
" When you know her better, you will realise how 
entirely she deserves your praise. She pleases 
me more every day." Madame du Deffand was 
then alone at Montmorency, Julie having been 
detained at home by a slight indisposition. Yet 
brief as was the separation, a bare week, the 
couple exchange daily letters. Those from Julie 
breathe the sincerest tenderness. "At last I 
have heard from you, Madame. It was entirely 
natural that I should not hear until to-day, but 
I have none the less grumbled at the priva- 
tion. If you could understand what your absence 
costs me, that would be worth, if not a second 



84 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

baptism to me, at all events a second agony of 
the same kind. It is strange, but none the less 
true, that this agony was one of the happiest 
experiences of my life, since it has enabled me 
to convince you of the tenderness and reality of 
my attachment to yourself." 

Words like these might be held plain flattery 
did not Julie's letters of the next year confide 
like sentiments to Abel de Vichy, and bear 
witness to an intimate accord between the two 
women. A slight misunderstanding has annoyed 
the Marquise, and her nephew at once charges 
his sister to stand his ambassador before her, a 
mission in which she is perfectly successful. Inter- 
course at Saint Joseph's shows no trace of tyranny 
or superciliousness on the one hand, of subservi- 
ence or a sense of inferiority on the other. All, 
on the contrary, points to a friendly equality, the 
familiar relation of persons of the same rank with 
no other distinctions than those which are the 
fruit of their different ages. The one mothers 
the other with no hint of command. The other 
defers, but consciously and as to her equal. It 
may even be well to state that there is no 
evidence to support the idea that by coming to 
reside with an old and blind woman Julie became 
a reader or secretary. These were the functions 
allotted to Wiart, occasionally to Mademoiselle 
Devreux. If Mademoiselle de Lespinasse occa- 
sionally performs their duties, this is purely volun- 
tary on her part, an act of good nature. She 
receives neither emoluments nor salary, and if 



JULIE'S FAULTS 85 

Madame du Deffand offered to secure to her "an 
annuity of four hundred livres " when the scheme 
was first broached at Champrond, this vague pro- 
mise never assumed the form of writing, and 
certainly was never put into effect. Both retained 
their independence, and no question of money 
was to be the storm-centre from which trouble 
issued. 

Julie's troubles in regard to her patron are the 
consequence of her youth and personal charms. 
" I am naturally suspicious," Madame du Deffand 
early confessed to her, " and from the moment that 
I think a person is in any way dealing craftily 
by me, I lose all confidence in them." She would 
have confessed herself more truly had she added 
that she was jealous, and that, well as she could 
love a friend, she demanded that this friend should 
prefer herself above all the world. The girl whom 
she so imprudently took under her roof doubtless 
tried her much in this respect. Julie was no 
coquette in the common sense of that term, a 
term inapplicable to a loyal and lofty nature, 
incapable of pettiness and opposed to all mean 
manoeuvring. D'Alembert can certainly be be- 
lieved on this point. "There is nothing false about 
you. You desire to please, not on account of 
vanity, which is wholly foreign to your nature, 
but because you both wish and need to make 
your daily round as smooth as possible." This 
friend is, however, equally truthful in his second 
verdict. " I know no one more generally popular 
than yourself, and few who keep a more level 



86 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

head in despite of this. You are certainly ready 
to make the first advances when others do not 
forestall you in this regard, but when a person is 
as sure of her friends as you are, she naturally 
busies herself in enlarging their number." Julie 
seeks to please because it is an instinct with her, 
a need of her nature, and not because it is a 
habit, still less a policy. Indifference on the part 
of those whom she may meet makes her uncom- 
fortable in a way not clearly to be defined, and 
which is more than half subconscious. But it 
haunts her until she feels that the ice is thawing 
under her personal charm. 

Few of those who frequented Saint Joseph's 
were able to resist the power of this " magician." 
The Chevalier d'Aydie was an early victim, but 
President Henault proved no distant follower. He 
was now seventy, half deaf, and by no means irre- 
sistible. Late hours and good dinners had ably 
seconded the ravages of age, and Walpole crudely 
avers that his bright eyes and rubicund complexion 
made him "appear the complete drunkard out 
of time." But he remained courteous, amiable, 
and witty, quick to fashion a quatrain or turn 
a madrigal, devoted no less than always to the 
ladies, and far more careful to please them than 
many a younger man. All contemporaries agree 
that he fell a complete victim to Julie. Early in 
their acquaintance he composed her " portrait," a 
document that is to all intent a declaration. At 
no time, however, did he deceive himself as to 
possibilities, witness this lamentation : ** One would 



VISCOUNT DE TAAFE 87 

take some trouble to turn your head, if the 
effort were not a certain loss of labour." La 
Harpe asserts that the "trouble" taken by the 
old President amounted to serious thoughts of 
marriage. It is scarcely necessary to add that 
any such labour was "lost," whether its end were 
marriage or merely to secure the lady's affections. 
Julie gave him nothing beyond gratitude and 
respect, with a flavour of affection, and he had 
the good taste to proclaim himself satisfied by 
this much. 

The feelings of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse for 
another admirer, like Renault a frequenter of the 
salon, though no native of the banks of the Seine, can 
hardly be set out thus simply. Few details of this 
brief episode have come down to us, so few that the 
identity of the man who first stirred her passionate 
heart was long disputed. The story, as I have 
pieced it together from various documentary sources, 
may be written thus : One of the oldest Irish fami- 
lies, that of the Viscounts de Taafe, divided into 
two distinct branches during the eighteenth century. 
Lord Carlingford, of the elder line, emigrated to 
Austria and found a residence in Vienna. Viscount 
de Taafe, a descendant of this man, and son-in-law 
to the Imperial Chancellor, played an important 
part in Austrian politics, and was several times 
employed on missions to Paris. He has been 
wrongly held the recipient of Julie's friendship and 
love. Her real hero was his cousin, a member of 
the younger branch of the family which remained 
loyal to England. He and a brother were well 



88 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

known in Parisian society, being accustomed to 
pass long periods in the city. Theobald de Taafe, 
the elder of the two and an M.P., met with an 
annoying adventure during such a visit in 1752, 
being imprisoned for three days in consequence of 
a quarrel at the gaming tables with a Jewish usurer 
named Abraham Payba. Released, and acquitted 
of this man's accusation, his reputation suffered 
little hurt. Only two years later, we find him 
presented at the Court of Versailles by Lord Albe- 
marle, the British Ambassador, and meeting with an 
excellent reception. Theobald's younger brother, 
whose Christian name appears in no paper, shared 
the same favour, and is the hero of our story. 

This young man left politics to his elder brother. 
A litterateur, and possessed of a pretty wit, he 
preferred philosophical circles, and was not averse 
to general society. A passage in the Due de 
Luynes' journal records, " he supped with me last 
night, and had the honour of playing at cavagnole 
with the Queen." He was a friend of one of 
Madame du Deffand's most faithful followers. A 
Scot by birth and Parisian by preference, John Craw- 
furd, "a young man of excellent heart," according 
to Walpole, was young, impetuous, sincere, and only 
too eager to devote himself. This Crawfurd was 
de Taafe's sponsor in the salon of Saint Joseph's. 
His reception pleased him so well that he returned 
almost daily. Madame du Deffand was not slow 
to credit this devotion to her young companion 
rather than to herself, nor to understand that the 
wittiest talk round her supper-table counted with 



THE MARQUISE INTERVENES 89 

him for much less than certain conversations in a 
convenient corner of the big room. She was the 
more alarmed by presently perceiving that Julie's 
response to all this was on a very different plane 
from that meted out to the Chevalier d'Aydie or 
President Henault. The young girl seemed, in- 
deed, to be slipping into the sweet insecurity of a 
real attachment. 

So little has come down to us about the 
attractive visitor, that we are ignorant of his age, 
his fortune, or his intentions ; even whether he was 
married or no. Whatever the facts, the Marquise 
considered the flirtation compromising to her friend, 
and resolved to put an end to it. Miss Berry, 
legatee of Walpole's papers and also of those of 
Madame du Deffand, asserts that the latter's con- 
duct of this delicate situation was irreproachable. 
"There are here," she writes, "letters in which 
Monsieur de Taafe explains his feelings towards 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, and his gratitude for 
the manner in which Madame du DefTand safe- 
guarded her interests. These letters prove that 
on this occasion at least the Marquise treated her 
friend as prudently, carefully, and affectionately 
as any mother. But the elder woman's remon- 
strances evoked obstinate resistance, and she 
learned, perhaps with some surprise, the real Julie 
de Lespinasse, so wise, so tractable, and so prudent, 
when her heart is not moved, but, once touched by 
love, violent, uncontrollable, excitable almost to 
insanity. Good advice and exhortations proving 
useless, the Marquise perforce resorted to other 



90 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

methods in order to combat "such wrong-headed- 
ness." She invoked the authority conferred by 
age, experience, and the fact of consanguinity. 
Julie was forbidden to see the Irishman, and for- 
mally ordered *' to keep her room " whenever he 
called. 

The consequent scenes, part temper and part 
tears, can only be guessed from the summary 
account preserved by Madame de la Ferte Im- 
bault. One salient fact is, however, recorded on 
the nominal authority of the Marquise. " In her 
rage, the young woman took such a dose of 
opium that the consequences affected her for life." 
La Harpe has a similar entry, but he assigns 
neither date nor reason. " Her previous excite- 
ment reached such a pitch that she determined to 
poison herself. She swallowed sixty grains of 
opium. The dose failed to produce the desired 
death, but she was thrown into the most terrible 
convulsions, and her nerves suffered for life." 
Madame du Deffand wept bitterly beside her bed, 
on which, believing herself dying, the girl observed, 
*• You are too late, Madame." Notwithstanding 
these two recitals, one may believe that the facts are 
exaggerated. Madame de la Ferte Imbault says 
that she had the tale from the Marquise on the 
morrow of the latter's final breach with Julie. La 
Harpe, dramatist by trade, stands convicted of 
having already several times travestied and " ro- 
manticised" the story of Mademoiselle de Lespi- 
nasse. Moreover, one of the girl's own letters, 
written to Abel de Vichy at about this time, con- 



THE INCIDENT CLOSED 91 

tains a less tragic and more probable explanation. 
" I know what tricks our nerves can play by my 
own experiences. I have had such violent attacks 
that I still wonder how my health has not been 
permanently injured, but troubles of the kind seem 
to have the advantage of never affecting one per- 
manently." It seems a lawful supposition that the 
girl was powerfully excited at being crossed in love, 
and that she now began the baleful attempt to 
control her nerves by repeated doses of opium 
which remained her curse to the end. A dramatic 
imagination, or the enmity of a gossip, could easily 
twist this fact into the story related above. 

But whatever the truth, calm was re-established 
with better speed and more ease than need have 
been expected. Whether discouraged, or bowing 
to Madame du Deffand's desire, Monsieur de Taafe 
left Paris and returned to England. The Marquise 
seems to imply that the pair corresponded none the 
less, but if this is true their letters rapidly became 
less frequent, and shortly ceased. Julie de Lespi- 
nasse is usually prodigal with the story of her 
sentimental episodes. Her correspondence ignores 
Monsieur de Taafe, and she always insists that the 
Marquis de Mora was the first who moved her 
heart to real love. One naturally infers that this 
little romance was less a passing passion than an 
imaginative episode, one of those youthful pre- 
dilections that begin by seeming a storm ready 
to sweep the world, clearing almost as soon 
as formed, and leaving no deeper mark upon 
the soul than a passing gust leaves on the 



92 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

changing surface of the lake over which it has 
blown. 

Madame du Deffand stands justified in the 
issue for wisdom and foresight alike. She has 
also a right to this act of justice — that her con- 
duct towards Julie is, thus far, beyond criticism. 
The notorious faithlessness of her old admirers, 
their exclusive preoccupation with her guest, 
the flirtation begun under her roof, and persisted 
in against her express desire, the daily increasing 
importance assumed among her friends by the girl 
whom she could so easily have forced to play the 
part of a simple companion, all this and more she 
has accepted without apparent objection. Such 
forbearance is remarkable in a woman of her 
kind, and it will not last indefinitely. Her temper 
rises directly the sharer in Julie's misdemeanours 
is no longer a superannuated gallant or a casual 
stranger, but the dearest of her friends, the man 
who has filled the first place in her salon and 
heart for ten years past. The name of d'Alem- 
bert has already appeared in this narrative, and 
it is now time to definitely construct the portrait 
of the man who, for many years to come, exerts 
a preponderant influence on the career of Julie 
de Lespinasse. 



CHAPTER IV 

Youth of d'Alembert — His daily intimacy with Madame du Deffand — His 
character, and relations with women — First meeting of d'Alembert and 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — His tender feeling for her — Madame du 
Deffand feels injured — Her changed attitude towards Julie — Similar 
resentment against d'Alembert — Comedy of The Philosophers and con- 
sequent quarrel — ^Journey of d'Alembert to Prussia — His letters to 
Julie — Last episodes in his friendship with Madame du Deffand — 
Clandestine " first receptions " in Julie's apartment — Discovery by the 
Marquise — Violent scene between the two — Their definite separation — 
d'Alembert bids farewell to the salon of Saint Joseph's — Despair and 
constant hatred of Madame du Deffand. 

Thrice famous — as philosopher, author, and yet 
more as a geometrician — the personality of d'Alem- 
bert is one of which it would be idle to trace a com- 
plete portrait in this place. He is less known as the 
private citizen, with whom alone we are here con- 
cerned. In respect of birth he is, as already indi- 
cated, a curious parallel to Julie. Both are the 
issue of an irregular attachment, and of women 
of the highest rank. His mother, the Marquise 
de Tencin, like Madame d'Albon in similar circum- 
stances, retired to the house of one Master Molin, 
surgeon to the King. But here the parallel is 
broken. His mother, far from risking everything 
to keep her child under her own eye, abandoned 
him forthwith. On the seventeenth day of No- 
vember in the year 17 17, a policeman found the 
infant on the steps of the Church of Saint Jean- 

le-Rond, in the parish of Notre Dame. He was 

93 



94 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

immediately baptized, under the name of his 
sanctuary, as Jean Baptiste Lerond, and put to 
nurse in the Picard village of Cremery, near 
Montdidier. Six weeks later, an agent of his 
natural father fortunately discovered the child 
and brought him back to Paris. This father was 
the Chevalier Destouches, a commissary of artil- 
lery popularly called Destouches-canon to distinguish 
him from a namesake. Libertine as he was, the 
man was sufficiently honest and tender-hearted. 
Returning from a commission abroad, he learned 
of the child's birth and abandonment at the same 
moment. As a married man he dared not claim 
his son, but he immediately made provision for 
his infancy and subsequent education. 

Madame Suard relates a picturesque story, 
told her by d'Alembert himself, of the rough 
soldier scouring Paris in his carriage in search 
of a nurse. But the infant, rolled in his cloak, 
was so weakly a creature, "with his head like 
an apple," and hands '* like spindles," termi- 
nating in fingers "small as needles," that no 
woman would accept responsibility for a baby 
"which seemed at the last gasp." But his wan- 
derings came to an end at last in the Faubourg 
Saint Antoine. Madame Rousseau, a good soul 
and wife of a simple glazier, received the miser- 
able object in sheer pity, saved his life by her 
care, and was his veritable mother until Destouches 
considered the child old enough to be put to school. 
I need not dwell on the boy's scholastic success. 
He rapidly passed as Bachelor and Master of 



YOUTH OF D'ALEMBERT 95 

Arts, was successful in the Schools of Law and 
of Medicine, and finally established a threefold 
reputation in geometry, chemistry, and medicine. 
The reason for the manner in which his name 
was meanwhile changed is not apparent, for the 
original Lerond was successively transformed into 
d'Aremberg, d'Arembert, and finally d'Alembert. 

Destouches died in 1726, leaving his son the 
modest income of 1200 livres, sufficient for his 
simple needs. He lodged with his adopted mother, 
the glazier's good wife, in her " hovel " in Rue 
Michel-le-Comte. In this obscure corner society 
suddenly fell upon d'Alembert, elevating him in 
a day to the position of a favourite, one of those 
chosen guests for whom Paris scrambles during 
the brief period of their fame. 

If Madame de la Fert6 Imbault is to be 
believed, the honour of this discovery belongs 
to Madame Geoffrin. The latter, famous huntress 
of every kind of celebrity, and especially desirous 
of attaching the rising stars, annexed the wise 
young man whom all, masters and fellow-students 
alike, conspired to laud as a " prodigy," the coming 
genius, and admirable no less for his simplicity 
than as a wit and a person of unquenchable high 
spirits. Surprising as it seems to-day, d'Alem- 
bert's first real success was due to the latter repu- 
tation. If society did not pet him as its "fool," 
he was at least its " entertainer," and in this 
guise he found entrance into the "kingdom of the 
Rue Saint Honore." A peerless recounter of comic 
tales, he possessed " a particular talent for mimick- 



96 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

ing the actors of the Opera or Com^die, that really- 
made one die of laughter. . . . Finding this trick 
successful, he set himself to parody Messieurs de 
Mairan and de Fontenelle and other visitors 
at my mother's salon, a whim which won him a 
reputation for ill-nature." Abb^ Galiani corro- 
borates this, and cannot refrain from imparting 
to d'Alembert himself the wonder with which the 
Neapolitans receive his account of his celebrated 
friend, "the little man, who imitates others and is 
as haughty as can be. They, one and all, seek to 
make you out as large as Saint Christopher, serious 
and bearded, a very Moses or Michael Angelo." 

The fame of this charming guest spread rapidly 
through the salons, and soon reached the most 
worldly circles. With these, if some complained of 
his " inexperience," d'Alembert was none the less 
successful, for the world does not smile less at a 
witticism or laugh less at a parody because their 
author is a trifle raw and ingenuous. Few, 
naturally, imagined that this " schoolboy truant," 
and joyous comrade at the supper-table, had worn 
the daylight out in his miserable lodging over 
columns of figures, calculations of ** dynamic forces," 
a laborious astronomical problem ; or that this " idle 
fellow " owned one of the most luminous and pro- 
found intellects of his day. " He amused them," 
Madame du Deffand records, " but they never 
deemed him worth a more serious thought. Such 
an entry on the world might excusably disgust him, 
and he was not long in beating a retreat." The 
writer of these lines exercised a powerful influence 



THEIR FRIENDSHIP 97 

in opening the young man's life, showing him the 
vanity of so facile a success and its inevitable effect 
on his dignity. Having demonstrated the necessity 
of relaxation after severe mental efforts, she offered 
him the hospitality of a house where he would find 
a nicer discrimination, and would be treated in 
better accord with his real worth. Their long 
friendship was the result. 

The couple first met in 1743, in President 
Henault's salon, and mutual attraction was not 
long in ripening into intimacy. The Marquise du 
Deffand was then lodging with her brother the 
Canon, close to La Sainte Chapelle, and not iar 
from the young philosopher's poor abode. Few 
evenings, afterwards, saw them apart — he defer- 
ential to, and confiding in, this woman of such high 
place and amazing intellect, she motherly and pro- 
tecting without assumption, more ambitious for him 
than he was for himself. It was as, she says, " the 
golden age of their friendship." Her removal to 
Saint Joseph's threatened to break in upon this 
daily intercourse, since they now lived at a distance 
from each other. Count des Alleurs condoles with 
Madame du Deffand about this time. " I am 
vexed to think that you and Monsieur d'Alembert 
will see less of each other now that you have moved 
to the Convent. The Faubourg Saint Germain 
cannot easily replace so witty and necessary a 
friend, one, too, with such varied accomplishments, 
despite his supreme excellence as a geometrician." 
The tie survived this trial, however, and when in 
the summer of 1752 the Marquise left Paris to hide 

Q 



98 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

her grief and blindness at Champrond, d'Alembert 
found the city so dull and empty that he was over- 
taken by a fit of misanthropy which accorded ill 
with his usual sprightly mood, " I am now," he tells 
her, " a hundred times more enamoured of retire- 
ment and solitude than I was when you left Paris. 
I seldom or never dine or sup elsewhere than at 
home, and this sort of existence suits me admirably." 
These solitary habits did not, however, make 
d'Alembert any less anxious for the return of his 
old friend to the hospitable apartment where he 
promises to bear her constant and faithful company. 
He will dine with her as often as she likes, always 
provided " that no third person is allowed to in- 
trude," and he willingly permits her to fulfil her 
vow of "sleeping for twenty-two hours out of the 
twenty-four, for so long as we pass the remaining 
two together." Her gratitude for these promises 
is quite emotional. " I am truly eager to see you, 
to talk with you. . . . We will have many dinners 
alone, and we will confirm each other's resolution 
to allow our happiness to depend on no one but 
ourselves. You will — perhaps ? — learn to tolerate 
men, I to do without them ! " " He is my intimate 
friend and I love him passionately," she writes to 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse about the same time. 
These are no vain words, but matched with deeds, 
for the renewal of old ties which followed on 
Madame du Deffand's return to the Convent was, 
if possible, marked by even greater warmth than 
heretofore. It culminated next year, when the 
Marquise moved heaven and earth to secure the 



"THE SLAVE OF LIBERTY" 99 

election of her favourite, now for the third time 
seeking admittance to the Academy. The Duchesse 
de Chaulnes supported Abbe Trublet. Both women 
used their arms without scruple, and there was a 
truly Homeric battle between the beauty of the 
one and the intellect of the other. D'Alembert 
alone seems to have remained calm, and when he 
refused to assure himself the vote of President 
H^nault by praising the latter's Abridged Chro- 
nology in the Encyclopaedia, his patron lost all 
patience. " I decline even to mention the thing," 
he retorted, ** for it's impossible to say a word more 
than that the book is handy, useful, and has sold 
well — praise that is scarcely satisfying. . . . Not 
heaven and yourself, nor yourself alone, shall make 
me add another word." D'Alembert was finally 
successful, and we may be sure that, triumphant as 
he was, one friend was yet more jubilant. 

This brief sketch of his youth will serve to 
indicate d'Alembert's character. However stiff- 
necked in the face of constraint, or inclined to 
stand upon his pride to the point of sacrificing 
both pleasure and interest to his independence — 
thus justifying Madame du Deffand when she 
nicknamed him " A Slave of Liberty " — he was 
still a man of rare temper, agreeable, easy to live 
with, even — in his own words — "easy to lead, 
provided that I do not see the guiding hand." 
While intellectually sceptical and incredulous, ready 
to quarrel with old beliefs and secular traditions, 
he is, at the same time, almost ingenuously simple 
in his dealings with other men, incapable of a 



loo JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

feint, still more of a lie, and so at the mercy of ill- 
faith on the part of others. This singular contrast 
explains the diversity of contemporary judgment 
upon his character. To a casual acquaintance or 
superficial eyes he appears cold, dry, caustic, 
bitterly ironical. Real friends, be they never so 
few, find him frankly affectionate, devoted, zeal- 
ously active in their interests. This portrait of 
himself is sufficiently just. " No man is more 
moved by the welfare or sorrow of his friends. 
They haunt his rest and banish sleep. He will 
make any sacrifice to help them." 

His attitude towards woman is full of like 
contradictions. Poverty, self- containment, and a 
passion for work, shielded his youth. If he knew 
the meaning of temptation, he certainly did not 
share the dissipations of his comrades at college. 
Later, suddenly launched into very real life, his 
heart was stirred, but old habit covered its emo- 
tions with a veil of discreet and almost perfect 
silence. An irrepressible talker, brilliant and over- 
flowing with wit at a crowded table or when faced 
by an audience, he was no sooner alone with one 
of the fair inspirers than his voice is gone, he is 
artificial, stupid, and clumsy, ready to snatch the 
first excuse for flight. Certainly, he did not meet 
with much encouragement, but this was not on 
account of any physical defects. He was built 
on the small scale, slight, moderately well dressed, 
"his hair negligently combed," but of perfectly pre- 
sentable manners and appearance. His features, 
at all events in youth, were of the kind "which 



HIS CHARACTER loi 

attract no remark, good or bad," notwithstanding 
that a certain malicious gleam in the eyes, and 
frank features, united to give his face a certain 
attractiveness. None the less, he was by no 
means popular with the sex, and when he enters 
this story, at the age of thirty-seven, d'Alembert 
claims no further conquests than the daughter of 
his old nurse. Mademoiselle Rousseau, " a little 
person who turned my heart for a moment," and 
who returned the inclination. But even this mild 
essay in Platonism does not seem to have lasted 
out the spring ! 

D'Alembert's persistent discreetness, coupled 
with the piercing, almost " yapping " quality of 
his voice, was turned to unpleasant account in the 
gossip of his enemies. A remark went the rounds, 
said to have been made by a witty lady in reply 
to the fervid exclamation of a partisan who cried, 
"Why, the man's a god!" "So!" ran the retort. 
"If he were a god, he'd make a man of himself 
pretty soon ! " Even his friends permit themselves 
a strangle licence. Monsieur de Formont writes 
to say, " The Duchesse de Luynes thinks that 
you lack certain talents indispensable in a great 
man. She says that you are no better than a 
child, and would be trusted as such even by the 
Grand Turk. I, at all events, take no stock of 
such sayings, and am assured that you would 
play your part excellently in whatever you under- 
took to do." I should not have touched upon 
this point but for its possible bearing upon the 
relations between d'Alembert and Mademoiselle 



I02 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

de Lespinasse, and I will now leave it. What- 
ever the degree of credit due to the philosopher, 
his conduct was little less excellent than his heart 
was sensitive and hungry for affection. Called 
dry and egotistical, his nature was in reality 
cramped for want of objects on which to expand. 
While apparently indifferent, he constantly hun- 
gered for opportunities to bestow his affection, and 
sadly aspired towards an undiscovered paradise. 
To quote his autobiographical portrait once more : 
" This feeling slumbered in the deeps of his soul, 
and the awakening was terrible. Having con- 
sumed his best years in thought and study, he 
was to share the sage's discovery of the emptiness 
of human knowledge. With Tasso's Aminta he 
has cried, '/ have lost all the years wherein I 
was not learned to love ! ' " 

D'Alembert was in this state of mind when, 
one April evening in the year 1754, he met 
destiny in the person of a charming girl, like 
himself an orphan, nameless and without fortune, 
of exquisite intelligence and manner, and almost 
thrust upon his daily notice in the dangerous and 
delicious intimacy of his old friend's home. It 
seems certain that the philosopher surrendered 
almost at first sight. The " Portrait " dedicated 
to Julie in 1771 contains the confession. "Time 
and custom stale all things, but they are powerless 
to touch my affection for you, an affection which 
you inspired seventeen years ago." It seems little 
less certain that a sweet familiarity, a complete 
surrender of the heart, rapidly grew up between 



RAPID SURRENDER TO JULIE 103 

them, and that they were confidential from an 
early date. " I could see their budding friend- 
ship," says Marmontel, " when Madame du Deffand 
brought them to sup with my friend Madame 
Harenc." A note written by Julie in the year of 
her coming to Paris proves that she was already 
her friend's ambassador before the Marquise. " I 
shall undoubtedly surprise you," she writes to her 
patron, " by my news. Monsieur d'Alembert goes 
to Saint Martin to-morrow and will not return 
till Thursday. He has had no choice about going, 
as Madame Boufflers commanded him to do so, 
and is taking him with her to-morrow. He has 
made me promise to assure you that he greatly 
missed you while at Montmorency, and that he 
does not at all relish such a long separation." 

Few friendships should, after all, seem less 
surprising than this, in which almost every cir- 
cumstance conspired to bring two people together. 
" Both of us lack parents and family," d'Alembert 
was afterwards to write, " and having suffered 
abandonment, misfortune, and unhappiness from 
our birth, nature seemed to have sent us into 
the world to find each other out, to be to each 
other all that each has missed, to stand together 
like two willows, bent by the storm but not up- 
rooted, because in their weakness they have inter- 
twined their branches." One may conceive of 
moments in the long hours spent together when 
the one sheds furtive tears while her companion 
preaches the patience taught by his stoical logic, 
the philosophic calm which somehow fails at times. 



I04 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Grimm, their common friend, says that "Not all 
d'Alembert's lessons, nor even the example of his 
own courage, were able to console her for the 
misfortune of having been born." 

Deeply sincere sympathy, absolute trust, and 
presently warm gratitude for his absolute devotion 
— sentiments of high value, certainly — Julie never 
stinted to her friend. But at no time did she 
go further. Her affair with Monsieur de Taafe 
proves that it was so in the beginning. The 
whole story of her life demonstrates that so it 
was to the end. D'Alembert was probably long 
in giving her reason to suspect a deeper feeling. 
His natural self-containment and the morbid secre- 
tiveness of a fearful aspirant, as well as the fear of 
repulse, kept his lips sealed. One of his letters 
of nine years later, 1763, allows the belief that 
even so late he had not risked an open declara- 
tion. Writing to Julie from Berlin, to recount 
the King of Prussia's wish to keep him at court 
and his refusal of the honour, he says : " The King 
is pleased to flatter himself that I may one day 
become President of his Academy, but apart from 
a thousand reasons, one of which you haven t the 
wits to guess, I think that this climate would pre- 
sently destroy me." This is the most audacious 
passage in all the twenty-three long letters to his 
well-beloved which have come down to us, and 
the passage does not lose in meaning if we re- 
member that the extant letters are copies of the 
originals made by Julie's own hand, which need 
have contained nothing that she wished to suppress. 



JEALOUSY OF MME. DU DEFFAND 105 

Closely as he guarded his secret, d'Alembert's 
flames were not the less plain for the blindest 
eye to see. Learned as she was in the ways 
of man, the Marquise du Deffand was doubt- 
less far quicker than Julie in observing the ex- 
clusive attention lavished on her companion, the 
passionate cult of which she was the object, the 
complete influence which she was gradually obtain- 
ing, not only over the emotions of d'Alembert, 
but over his tastes, ideas, and even acts. Few 
things could touch her more nearly than such a 
discovery, and it touched her in her most sensi- 
tive spot. She might have suffered — probably she 
would have at least excused — a less exalted error, 
a love in which the senses were concerned rather 
than the spirit. She would certainly have suffered 
less from something of the kind than in now 
seeing slip from her control the man whose genius 
she admired, and whom she considered her eternal 
subject. " She is jealous neither of sympathy nor 
of wits," Julie was to write of her, " but only 
of preferences and attentions. These she never 
pardons, whether in those who bestow or those 
who receive. She seems to arrogate to herself the 
words of Christ, and to command all who come into 
her circle, ' Sell all that thou hast and follow 77ze.' " 
Walpole makes a similar reproach at a later date. 
" You are exacting beyond all belief We are to 
exist for you alone, and while you poison your 
days by suspicion and mistrust, your friends are 
driven away through the sheer impossibility of 
pleasing you." Jean Jacques Rousseau is to the 



io6 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

point. " She did not fail to see that I was neglect- 
ing her, and of course this was more than enough 
to put her into a rage. One cannot fail to see 
how dangerous a woman of this kind may be, 
but I prefer the scourge of her wrath to the curse 
of her friendship." 

Mademoiselle Rousseau, daughter of a poor 
glazier, had once earned the " aversion " of the 
Marquise — all for a spring-fancy of d'Alembert. 
One can imagine the feeling roused by this spec- 
tacle of a real and lasting passion, of the heart 
and of the brain ; a romance unfolding before her 
very eyes and in her own house, of which the 
heroine was the girl whom she had found in a far 
province and taken to herself, made a part of her 
own life, had, as it were, adopted. Injury was 
piled on injury when she realised that the rival 
was her real equal by birth no less than intellect, 
and that youth and presence stood all for her, 
all against herself. 

Far from our being astonished at the way in 
which this affair moved Madame du Deffand, she 
should probably be credited with much forbearance. 
For the space of several years she mastered her 
feelings, was able to repress the dumb anger that 
fed upon her, and maintained at least a semblance 
of the motherly relation so imprudently assumed 
towards the girl. Doubtless she still hoped that 
this would prove no more than a second passing 
attraction, one of those aberrations of the spirit 
from which not philosophy itself may preserve a 
disciple, and called to mind her friend Duche's 



ITS EFFECTS ON JULIE 107 

saying in a similar case, " Friendship sleeps while 
love wakens, but friendship profits in the end." 
She did not lose her patience until love finally- 
confessed its conquest, possibly its proscription of 
friendship, until she no longer owned so much as 
a corner of the heart which another had taken whole 
from between her hands. She was too clever and 
too proud to give way to complaints or reproaches 
even then. Smothering her pain, she changes her 
conduct not at all, makes no effort to break in upon 
the daily meetings, or in any way to separate the 
two inseparables. Her growing displeasure with 
the girl finds expression only in shades — a colder 
tone, an affected reserve, more petty demands, a 
closer holding of her to minute duties, above all, 
a new insistence on the fact that she is a poor 
dependent in a painfully false position. And all 
this comes about as it were by accident — nothing 
striking in act, no wounding speeches, but a nice 
malice behind the spoken word or the tone of the 
voice, a something that makes the most innocent 
phrases sting. 

Few things hurt a nervous and impressionable 
nature more than the repetition of such pin-pricks. 
Julie is hurt in her pride and wounded in her heart. 
This constant rejection of, these misconstructions 
placed upon, the real affection and gratitude with 
which she has repaid Madame du Deffand's earlier 
kindnesses, chafe her, and the weight of the chains 
so lightly worn until now grows daily less endurable. 
The enforced waiting upon a " blind and vapours- 
ridden old woman," the obligation under which she 



io8 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

labours of sharing the Marquise's habit of "turning 
day into night and night into day," of constantly 
sitting by her bedside, often of reading her to 
sleep, all the duties readily assumed when she 
believed them repaid with affection, now seem 
an Insupportable imposition, an odious servitude. 
Her moral weariness and heartfelt disgust find 
undisguised confession In these lines, addressed to 
a friend : " Fontalnebleau and 1' Isle- Adam have 
completely swept away the society In which we 
live — not that I should greatly care, were It not for 
Madame du Deffand. Personally, I should be per- 
fectly happy never to go out, and never to see 
more than the five or six friends who are more or 
less necessary to my happiness or amusement. But 
these days as they are fill me with admiration, or 
rather affliction. They are an eternal constraint 
and privation. Possibly once In a month I may 
have the good fortune to do something by my own 
wish, yet I promise you that there are very few 
moments when there Is not something that I should 
like to do, or some taste that I would gladly satisfy. 
Confess that. If I have greatly raised myself In 
your esteem, your Idea of my happiness has fallen 
pretty low." 

Witness of her troubles and first confidant of 
her complaints, d'Alembert became more and more 
vexed at heart, and rapidly estranged from the old 
friend whom he accused of cruelty and Injustice. 
Hurt by his coldness, the Marquise did not spare 
him in turn, and a succession of stinging words 
and rebuffs deepened the breach. Matters were at 



ANGER AGAINST D'ALEMBERT 109 

this pass when, in 1760, the trouble was suddenly 
aggravated by a futile incident recorded by Madame 
de la Ferte Imbault. It appears that the Marquise, 
in a letter to Voltaire, gave free rein to a " very 
bitter " pen on the subject of their common friend, 
d'Alembert. Voltaire's reply alluded to these acid 
remarks. A few days later, the malicious old 
woman turned a conversation to the subject of 
these letters "to amuse the company," and begged 
some one present to read them aloud. D'Alembert 
had meanwhile entered the room unannounced, as 
was his custom. He heard the letters read, and 
affected to laugh at the incident. But he was 
profoundly hurt, and the mathematician Fontaine, 
a witness of the scene, " and as able to calculate 
characters as figures or lines," having carried the 
whole tale to the salon of Madame Geoffrin that 
same evening, concluded his narration with the 
prophecy " that d'Alembert would take a very 
interesting revenge on Madame du Deffand, and 
that his instrument would be Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse." He certainly complained to Voltaire, 
who took his usual way out of the difficulty — denied 
everything, and asserted that his word was enough 
to refute any evidence to the contrary. He had 
the effrontery to write, " Know that Madame du 
Deffand never sent me the letter of which you 
complain. She apparently let fall some observa- 
tions, or you said something to her which provoked 
reprisals." 

This denial naturally carried no conviction, but 
d'Alembert was shortly offered the means of re- 



no JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

tallation. Palissot's comedy of The Philosophers 
appeared just at this time — a violent manifesto 
against the entire Encyclopaedist clan. Madame 
Geoffrin, Diderot, d'Alembert himself, all the 
leaders of the host whose head was the master 
of Ferney, were brought upon the stage and 
mercilessly ridiculed under the most transparent 
pseudonyms. Every writer's pen was instantly 
out, sharp as a sword, and Parisian society divided 
itself into two hostile camps, the one applauding, 
the other reviling Palissot. Madame du Deffand 
was among the few neutrals in this war of words, 
or, more exactly, the Marquise confined herself to 
jeering at either party, lashing Encyclopaedists and 
"saints" with a fine impartiality. D'Alembert 
was immensely annoyed. He wrote to Voltaire, 
denouncing the Marquise in terms that do little 
honour to a philosophical mind. " The avowed 
female patrons of this piece are Mesdames de 
Villeroy, de Robecq, and du Deffand, your friend 
and formerly mine. This means nothing else than 
that these creatures have a hand in the game and 
. . . profits." 

D'Alembert's act was nothing short of trea- 
chery, being simply an attempt to cause a breach 
between Madame du Deffand and her oldest and 
most illustrious friend. But Voltaire was for once 
his better self. *' Madame de Robecq," he writes 
to the Marquise, "has had the misfortune to pro- 
tect this piece and procure its presentation. I 
have been told that you have a hand in the enter- 
prise, an announcement that pained me greatly. 



THEIR RECONCILIATION iii 

If it be true, confess yourself, and so I shall give 
you absolution." The Marquise's reply was equally 
dignified. "You have heard something pretty bad 
about me ? I am an admirer of the Frerons and 
Palissots, and a declared enemy of the Encyclo- 
paedists? I deserve neither such honours nor such 
slanders. . . . Far from joining myself to Madame 
de Robecq, I have declared my opinion of her 
revenge and of her instruments alike. ..." A later 
passage in the same letter shows that she is aware 
of the source of this accusation, and the lines are 
clearly marked with the pain and indignation that 
the treachery has caused her. "If duty bids raise 
the hue and cry against the enemies of the philo- 
sophers, I confess that I have done nothing of the 
kind. Friendship alone inspires one to take a hand 
in this sort of quarrel. A few years ago, friendship 
would very likely have led me into many stupi- 
dities. To-day I should be an unmoved onlooker 
at the strife of Gods and Giants. Here, we have 
rats and frogs ! " 

Her conduct was as sober as her words. Neither 
complaining nor reproaching, she sought a frank 
explanation with d'Alembert. A more or less real 
reconciliation followed. " I forgot to tell you," the 
philosopher writes to Voltaire, " that Madame du 
Deffand and I have patched up peace, for what it is 
worth. She asserts that she has had no dealings 
with either Palissot or Freron. . . . Therefore, 
kindly do not tell her of my complaints. It would 
mean more squabbles, and I have no relish for 
such," The Marquise added a last word to the 



112 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

affair, sorting things out and defining her position 
with exactitude and skill. " I have been particu- 
larly impartial in this war of the philosophers. I 
cannot admire their Encyclopaedia. It may be 
admirable, but the few articles that I have read 
bore me to death. I cannot accept as legislators 
men who have plenty of brains, a trifle of talent, and 
no taste at all. Monsieur d'Alembert I except from 
this condemnation, even though it was he who 
slandered me to you. I pardon his error. His 
reason is, after all, one that merits some indul- 
gence. He is as honest a man as lives, with a big 
heart, plenty of brains, much common sense, and a 
good deal of taste in a good many things. But on 
certain matters he has become a party man, and 
here his common sense fails him." 

I have detailed this poor squabble at length 
because Julie de Lespinasse is the real cause of it, 
although she never appears and her name is never 
mentioned. At once cause and object, she has set 
the pair at enmity — quite unintentionally, of course — 
filled their hearts with secret animosities, and trans- 
formed a friendly alliance into that state of prepared 
neutrality which must sooner or later lead to open 
war. To our eyes, the rupture is already accom- 
plished. Years of grace may postpone the in- 
evitable, but only at the price of embittering the 
misunderstanding, prolonging it, and increasing the 
pain of three persons surely made for mutual affec- 
tion and understanding, but now irremediably 
embroiled by the passion that disturbs their judg- 
ment and defies their will The delay is, however, 



PROGRESS OF THE QUARREL 113 

kind to the memory of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, 
for a final breach at this period must have branded 
her with shameful ingratitude. Hitherto, however 
bad her temper — an excusable fault — Madame du 
Deffand has not been seriously unkind. Contem- 
porary and current opinion can only agree upon 
this point. Later, on the contrary, her conduct 
wears every appearance of injustice and tyranny ; 
and even if this appearance be due in part to that 
supreme awkwardness of which only the cleverest 
persons are capable, the conduct of a few moments 
then neutralises the endurance of years, and she 
embarks on a contest from which she cannot emerge 
with even the bare honours of war. 
j/ Julie and d'Alembert naturally grew more in- 
1 timate as they became more embroiled with the 
' Marquise. Proof of this is a consequence of the 
philosopher's Prussian journey, taken in 1763, on 
the conclusion of the treaty which closes the Seven 
Years' War. In common with a majority of the 
Encyclopaedist leaders, d'Alembert had, throughout 
this war, given constant expression to *'his tender 
interest in the success of the King of Prussia, the 
philosopher-ruler!" He now offered his warm 
congratulations on the Treaty, notwithstanding that 
it signalised the defeat of France. Frederic replied 
with a pressing invitation to Potsdam, and the 
"Marquis of Brandenburg," as Pere Paciaudi was 
pleased to call d'Alembert, considered obedience 
necessary, little as he relished it. Every post from 
Prussia during his three months' absence brought 
Julie a long letter, giving the traveller's observa- 



H 



114 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

tions and experiences in minute detail. The 
originals of these letters are unfortunately lost. 
They survive only in copies made by Julie's own 
hand, transcripts plainly abridged, expurgated, and 
lacking in detail, except in the rare passages which 
contain matter of personal interest to the pair. 
But d'Alembert's absolute confidence in his cor- 
respondent is clearly to be seen, no less than his 
constant thought of her, and the preponderant 
influence which she exercises upon his every 
decision. 

When Frederic presses him to come into per- 
manent residence at the Court as President of the 
Berlin Academy, with an apartment at Potsdam 
and a salary of twelve thousand pounds, d' Alembert 
declines these alluring offers despite his poverty, 
just as he declined those of the Empress Catherine, 
who, the year before, proffered a hundred thousand 
pounds for life as the fee for "educating her son." 
As in the previous case, the official reasons for 
his refusal are poor health, the rigorous climate, and 
his taste for retirement, but the real reason is that 
which is discreetly hinted in his letters to Julie. 
To be separated from her would be too painful, 
how painful he knows well enough, thanks to the 
present brief exile. " Don't imagine," he writes, 
"that my reception here is turning my head. It is 
only teaching me once more how precious is friend- 
ship, for not all the balm that could be poured upon 
the greediest self-conceit can replace that." Over- 
come as he is by the praises showered upon him 
during this stay at Potsdam, the honours bestowed 



D'ALEMBERT IN PRUSSIA 115 

upon him, the charm of the royal conversation, 
"charming, amusing, pleasant, and instructive," he 
sighs for the day when he may return to the joys 
of familiar talk with Julie and her playful lectures. 
" Do not flatter yourself," he writes, " that I shall 
be less of a tease when I come home, or better 
behaved at table. It is true that I must not play 
tricks here, but be sure that I shall have to make 
up for many arrears." 

Once only do these letters name Madame du 
Deffand, and then in such a way as to prove that 
she has no cognisance of this correspondence, and 
no part in its confidences. " I will write to the 
Marquise, if possible by this post. The King asks 
whether she is still alive ! You may imagine how 
I shall congratulate her on being the subject of such 
a question. I will add one or two of His Majesty's 
sayings. They should secure him her best ap- 
proval." The letter follows a few days later — the 
only one to her address during the whole three 
months of his absence. It is stilted, constrained, 
and frigidly polite. "You have allowed me, 
Madame, to write to you about myself, and to ask 
how you fare. I am only too ready to avail myself 
of the leave. ... I will content myself with as- 
suring you that, despite the whirl in which I am 
living, I never forget the friendship and gracious- 
ness with which you are pleased to honour me. I 
like to believe that my affectionate attachment to 
yourself makes me in some part deserving of them. 
As I know that nothing wearies you more than to 
be asked to write a letter, I must content myself 



ii6 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

with asking you to send me your news by Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse. . . . Farewell, Madame. 
Take care of your health. My own remains 
good." 

The Marquise's reply to these reserved and 
conventional lines is couched in a very different 
strain. Far from charging Julie with the task of 
answering, she immediately takes up her pen. In 
her large sprawling hand, the hand of her blindness, 
she accepts as good currency the phrases in which 
his heart had no share, and proposes in touching 
terms a full reconciliation, a renewal of friendship, a 
return to the happy days so suddenly and so com- 
pletely passed. This letter — hitherto unpublished, 
I believe — contains more of the real Madame du 
Deffand than her most famous epistles — doubtless 
a jealous woman, imperious, exacting towards those 
whom she loves, but generous, faithful, and warm- 
hearted. "No! no, sir! I delegate the giving 
you news of myself to no one, still less will I reply 
to the most charming letter that you have written 
to me otherwise than with my own hand. Reading 
it, I saw myself at La Saint Chapelle twenty years 
ago, you as pleased with me as I was with you. 
This letter indeed recalled the pfolden agfe of our 
friendship, and made me happy by reawakening my 
tender feelings. Let us begin there, and love each 
other as we used to do. I do not think that either 
of us can do better. Believe me if you can ! . . . 
Farewell, my dear d'Alembert. I am, and I shall 
always be, unchanged for you. Never doubt that, 
and love me in your turn." 



JULIE'S MISCONDUCT 117 

But the appeal failed, and the unanswered letter 
contains the last flicker of their friendship. The 
old stress returned with d'Alembert's re-entry to 
the salon, late in September. Relations were more 
strained than ever yet, and each party prepared for 
the open warfare which must come. In the follow- 
ing January, Voltaire risks a discreet question, 
astonished at the Marquise's silence on the subject 
of her constant visitor. " Do you still enjoy the 
pleasure of frequently seeing Monsieur d'Alembert? 
Not only does he possess wit, but his wit is to the 
point — a great matter ! " The answer was as curt. 
" I often see d'Alembert, and agree with you that 
he has plenty of wits ! " Henceforward Madame 
du Deffand ignores his name. It follows the name 
of Julie de Lespinasse, long since banished from 
her correspondence, and thus the storm gathers in 
heavy silence. 

The ensuing scene is so well known, and has 
been so often repeated in history and even in 
novels,^ that it seems almost gratuitous to repeat 
it here. I may, however, give so much of it as 
is needful to the continuity of my narrative, in- 
sisting on certain details to which my predecessors 
have not given proper attention. The origin of 
the scene, at all events its external cause, lies in 
the curious disposition of her time affected by 
Madame du Deffand — a disposition best resumed 
in her own words. " Five hours of the night I 

^ The most notable example is Mrs. Humphry Ward's " Lady 
Rose's Daughter." 



ii8 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

devote to my own reflections. Four or five hours 
exhaust all that is worth reading. Somewhere 
about midnight I sleep for two or three hours. I 
rise very late, and my visitors arrive about six." 
A little later than the last-named hour, towards 
seven, d'Alembert was used to arrive, returning 
to his glazier's cottage towards nine. Ostensibly 
he never varied these hours, but he had latterly 
contracted a habit of coming somewhat earlier and 
visiting Mademoiselle de Lespinasse in her own 
apartments on the next story. These hours were 
the couple's most delightful time, and if it be neces- 
sary to prove their innocence one need only men- 
tion that they were frequently joined by a few 
special friends — Turgot, Chastellux, Marmontel. 
These little gatherings presently assumed the 
form of a regular institution. The small room 
was the scene of a miniature salon, a " first re- 
ception," familiar, clandestine, hidden from the 
stormy jealousy of Madame du Deffand, and 
doubtless invested with the particular attractive- 
ness of the forbidden and the mysterious. Natur- 
ally, and despite all precautions, the discovery 
had to come, and one's only wonder must be 
that this discovery was so long delayed. 

The catastrophe occurred late in April. Chance 
or an indiscretion suddenly revealed the terrible 
secret, and Madame du Deffand's surprise and 
rage were equally unbounded. Her furious 
imagination distorted and aggravated the nature 
of the offence. Joining these gatherings to all 
that has been indicated above, she construed 



RECRIMINATIONS 119 

them as an abuse of confidence, an audacious de- 
fiance, a plot to steal away her friends, and — as 
Madame de la Ferte Imbault records — an attempt 
to raise " altar against altar," and this at her 
expense and in her own house. She demanded 
instant explanations from Julie, and the interview 
followed the course only too usual in such cases. 
Sarcasm gave place to bitter words, and bitter 
words to those which are never forgiven. Con- 
temporary memoirs, and certain passages in a 
letter of the elder woman, afford a sufficiently 
clear view of the quarrel. The entire past leapt 
to their tongues, the one dwelling on benefits 
bestowed and her bounties, and on the other's 
ingratitude. Perfidy and treason were words soon 
uttered, and the classical simile of the snake which 
stings the bosom wherein it was warmed. Julie's 
retort assumed the dimensions of an attack. How 
was it possible for hereto love one who, she has 
long felt, "detests and abhors" her, who has not 
ceased to " crush " her under the heel of her 
despotism, to chafe her feelings, deluge her — 
and with what guileful wisdom ! — with reproaches 
and recriminations. The immense flood of sup- 
pressed feeling, silently gathered these many years, 
burst its banks and flooded the world like a molten 
stream. 

An outburst of the kind made further com- 
panionship impossible. Both felt this, and the 
final separation was the result of mutual desire. 
Marmontel asserts that " it was sudden," but 
the first day's rupture does not seem to have 



I20 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

been final, certainly not irrevocable. The point 
from which there was no turning back arrived 
when Julie wrote to the Marquise a few days 
later : " You have set a date, Madame, for me 
to have the honour of seeing you. This date 
seems very distant, and I shall be glad if you 
are able to bring it nearer. I desire nothing 
more than to be deserving of your kindness. Be 
kind to me, and give me the dearest proof of 
that kindness by permitting me to personally re- 
peat my assurance that my respect and affection 
for you will continue as long as my life." Lines 
so full of feeling, affectionate, almost repentant, 
would have touched Madame du Deffand's heart 
at any other time. She proved implacable now 
because her discovery of the " crime " had been 
followed by an incident which vastly increased 
its enormity in her eyes. In the first heat of 
her passion, she fell upon the unfortunate idea 
of giving d'Alembert his choice. Now, once and 
for all, he must choose between Julie and her- 
self. There must be no more dallying be- 
tween them. He found it unnecessary to weigh 
the alternatives. Without a moment's hesitation, 
the philosopher made his farewell to the house 
in which he had been held the oracle, and the 
salon of Saint Joseph's henceforth mourned its 
most constant member. That she might have 
foreseen the decision in no way softened the 
sting of it to the Marquise. It was a blow to 
which she never became reconciled, which she 
never pardoned, and never forgave to the girl 



FINAL RUPTURE 121 

in whom she saw the real cause of it. " With- 
out her I should have kept d'Alembert ! " she 
cried, long years afterwards, thus laying bare in 
one moment the cause of their quarrel and the 
source of her undying hostility. 

Mademoiselle Lespinasse could not have held 
out her olive-branch at a more unfortunate moment 
than the morrow of such a scene. " I cannot con- 
sent to receive you so soon, Mademoiselle. The 
words which passed between us, and determined 
our separation, are still a far too lively memory. 
I cannot believe that the motives behind your 
desire for an interview are friendly. . . . What 
is it that you really want of me to-day ? What 
service can I do you ? My presence could not 
please you. It could only recall the beginning 
of your acquaintance with me, and the years that 
followed it — things only fit for oblivion. Still, if 
you can after all look back with pleasure, and 
if the remembrance of old days can provoke some 
feeling of remorse, I by no means pride myself 
on an austere and inflexible obduracy. I am 
fairly well able to recognise truth. Sincere re- 
pentance may touch me, and so revive the tender 
feelings and the liking which I once bore you. 
But, until that time comes. Mademoiselle, we can 
remain as we are, and you must be content with 
my good wishes for your welfare." 

All thought of a reconciliation naturally vanished 
in face of this dry and haughty refusal. Touched 
in the quickest part of her pride, Julie made no 
further advances. A wall of ice was built up be- 



122 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

tween the two women, who henceforth became 
more strangers to each other than if they had 
never been acquainted. But silence and indiffer- 
ence are not synonymous terms. In each of 
these two fiery hearts tenderness departed only 
to let in hate, and hate of that bitter sort which 
is no whit less tenacious and deep because it 
seldom finds vent in words. But if the feelings 
of both parties were akin, it is fair to remember 
that Madame du Deffand alone permitted hers to 
lead to action. Her first pretension was the claim 
to forbid her friends, even her mere acquaintance, 
to have any dealings with the girl, who, she pro- 
tested, had "odiously misled and betrayed her," 
and in this way to isolate her. D'Alembert's 
action, and her fear lest others should follow his 
example, soon led to a change of tactics. She 
wisely beat a retreat, for not one member of her 
salon failed more or less openly to side with 
the youngest, the poorest, and the most lonely. 
Renault, d'Usse, Chastellux, Turgot, Countess de 
Boufflers, the Duchesse de Chatillon, the Mar^chale 
de Luxembourg, and a host of less important 
names, seemed to be vying with each other as 
to which should first offer their sympathy, and 
promise their continued interest. The Marquise 
found critics even within her own family. With 
the exceptions of the Canon of La Sainte Chapelle, 
too enamoured of his peace to take part in " such 
a pother," and Madame d'Aulan, "whose one hope 
was to become her sister's heir," most of the Vichys 
— Gaspard, his wife, all their children — declared for 



WRATH OF THE MARQUISE 123 

Julie. Abel, in the heat of his youth, declared 
himself in such terms that the Marquise com- 
plained loudly to, his father and never forgave 
him. "Your son," she writes to Gaspard, when 
long afterwards Abel came to Paris, " will hardly 
be pleased with me. But I understand that he 
has intimacies of a kind which do not consort 
with those that I had in view for him. How- 
ever, a man is at liberty to suit his own tastes 
and interest." 

Thus generally blamed, and in constant fear 
of further defections, the Marquise had perforce 
to shut her eyes ; but she was bitterly undeceived — 
and her feelings were long raw. She continued 
to receive those whom her heart of hearts held 
renegades, but passage after passage in her letters 
shows that she no longer either trusted or held 
them in affection. Ten years afterwards, Walpole, 
her new favourite and the man who has filled the 
place of d'Alembert, thinks it his duty to press 
Conway to abstain from all relations with Julie. 
" Nothing in the world would so annoy my old 
friend, not that she would ever tell you so in 
words. I must confess that I, also, should not 
relish it. ... I let myself speak thus because the 
Marquise has enemies bitter enough to be at the 
pains of introducing all Englishmen to Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse." The Marquise's animosity spanned 
the breach of death itself. Ten years after the 
burial of her whom she had called the "Muse of 
the Encyclopaedia," she received from Madame 
Boufflers a letter, " very well written, very touch- 



124 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

ing," and overflowing with tenderness. " I was 
allowing myself to be stirred," she says, "but I 
remembered her connection with the late deceased, 
and my heart was shut." 

Her pain is her excuse for this fierce hate — a 
pain the deeper since her pride endeavours to hide 
it. But an irreplaceable something has passed out 
of her miserable life, and the ache of it refuses to 
be hidden. She was so overwhelmed at first that 
for once her quick pen refused to run. She excuses 
delay in replying to Voltaire by ** the domestic 
trouble and embarrassment that have overwhelmed 
my feeble spirit. I was fain to wait for a little more 
calmness in order to write to you." " You would 
have me share my thoughts with you," she writes 
a few lines later. " Sir, what is this you ask? My 
thoughts are confined to one, a sad one — that life, 
truly estimated, is capable of but one grand mis- 
fortune — itself! . . . You see how sick is my heart, 
and how ill I choose my times for this letter. But, 
my friend, console me ! Exorcise the black spirits 
which hem me in l," A fortnight later the key re- 
mains unaltered. "All the ills of the flesh, painful 
and heavy as they are, sadden and diminish our 
souls less than this trafific and conversation with 
our fellows." Outwardly, at all events, she re- 
covers, resumes her suppers and receptions, the 
round of a worldly life. But the savour and desire 
are gone from them. She has no illusions on the 
score of those with whom she now allies herself. 
" I have nothing that ties me to this country now, 
and I would say of the society around me what 



HER TEMPER 125 

La Rochefoucauld says of the Court : * It gives 
us no pleasure, bzd it prevents our finding pleasure 
elsewhere' " " Twelve people were here yester- 
day," is her plaint four years later, " and I admired 
the different kinds and degrees of futility. We 
were all perfect fools, but each in his kind. All 
shared a want of intelligence ; we were all singu- 
larly wearisome. All twelve departed at one, but 
none left a regret behind." And lastly, when she 
balances her life towards the end, " I cannot claim 
to have wanted for the number of my acquaintance, 
but Ponte-de-Veyle is my only friend, and he bores 
me to death three-quarters of the time." 

Horace Walpole, we may here note, is in error 
when he reproaches Madame du Deffand for resem- 
bling the Englishman who, having lost a friend, at 
once resorted to the St. James's Coffee-house to 
choose a successor. The truth is that, from the 
day of her rupture with Julie and d'Alembert — 
always excepting this same Walpole, nearly always 
absent, and whose egoistical selfishness constantly 
subjects her to pitiless rebuffs — the Marquise pos- 
sessed no real friend. Her guests are indifferent 
to her, persons attracted by her reputation or 
amused by her repartees, no more her friends than 
she is theirs. Yet others are mere base parasites, 
"who eat her suppers, wink at each other," and 
pass jests at her expense under the safe cover of 
her blindness. Her one really trusted companion 
is the hired successor to Julie, Mademoiselle 
Sanadon, la Sanadona, as she calls her, a devoted 
and always attentive old maid, but of limited intel- 



126 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

llgence and a wearisome babbler. " She is always 
coming to find me," complains her mistress, " ima- 
gining that I cannot dispense with her services, 
and she is right, for she is to me what a stick is 
to other old women." 

The sa/on of Saint Joseph's is little more than 
a desert, a place of comings and goings, ever 
alive with murmured speech. Its mistress knows 
this only too well, and her complaint to Voltaire 
does not seek to hide it. " You cannot know, until 
it has befallen you, what like is this estate of one 
who has had friends, then lost them irreparably. 
Give to one in this case some trifle of taste, a little 
discernment and great love of the truth ; put such a 
one in the midst of Paris or Pekin, or any place 
you will, blind her, and I assure you that it were 
well for her had she never been born." 

For all these miseries of her latter years, for all 
the disappointments, all the desertions that fall to 
her, Julie de Lespinasse is blamed by the Mar- 
quise. Turgot enters the Ministry. She at once 
cries out, "Fourteen or fifteen years ago he was 
here daily. The Lespinasse separated us, as she 
has cut me off from all the Encyclopaedists." The 
mere thought of seeing Julie is sufficient to make 
her furious. Even Walpole, failing to catch a 
remark, and making an unfortunate reply, does 
not escape. " I cannot comprehend," she declares 
angrily, "how you failed to see that I was not 
talking seriously. I wouldn't owe her my escape 
from the hangfman ! I will lose no time in clearing- 
your head of so odious an idea." And so, when 



EMANCIPATION OF JULIE 127 

some one brings the news of the untimely death of 
the woman whom she had once held for little less 
than her daughter, "Mademoiselle de Lespinasse," 
she remarks, "died at two o'clock last night. Once, 
that would have meant something to me. The 
information has no interest to-day." Next day, 
speaking with one of her feminine friends, she 
adds this cruel raillery to her epitaph : "If she 
is in Paradise, the Holy Virgin will need to keep 
her eyes open, or she will find herself lost to the 
love of the Eternal ! " 

The spectacle of Madame du Deffand closing 
her days in hatred and despair is a saddening sight, 
from which we may well turn to the history of 
her whilom friend, now her enemy, her rival to be, 
for the exaltation of the one as the other waned 
was the twofold result of their quarrel. Free of 
constraint and at liberty to dwell in the full light 
after dwelling in the shadows, Julie de Lespinasse 
attained her full stature. Her nature, hitherto 
intentionally repressed, now asserts its claims to 
develop, until a wonder of the times is found in 
the issue from a little provincial, and, as it were, 
between an evening and the morning, of a Queen 
of Paris. And this transformation is the magical 
fruit of her irresistible personal charm, accomplished 
by the aid of no family name, no silent help, no 
lavish expenditure ! The ten years following the 
Saint Joseph period of her life are probably those 
in which Julie was happiest. They certainly saw 
her her most triumphant, most brilliant self. 



CHAPTER V 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse opens house in the Rue Saint Dominique — Her 
lodging — Her financial' resources— Attacked by small-pox — d'Alembert 
contracts the disease — He enters Julie's house — Their common life — Period 
of calm and happiness — Their intimacy with Madame Geoffrin — Conse- 
quent gain to Julie — Mademoiselle de I^espinasse forms the project of a 
salon — Her immediate success, and marvellous tact in the part — Special 
character of the salon of Rue Saint Dominique — Her influence with her 
friends — Influence of the new circle on the literary world and the 
Academy. 

One may permissibly read a suggestion of defiance 
into the situation which Mademoiselle de Lespin- 
asse selected for the home of her rising fame, 
her " shop of bright wits," as a contemporary called 
it, on the morrow of her quarrel with the Marquise 
du Deffand. The choice was a little house at the 
corner of the Rue de Belle-Chasse, opposite the 
convent of the same name in the same Rue Saint 
Dominique, and not a hundred yards from the 
Convent of Saint Joseph. One Messager, a " Paris 
master-j'oiner," was her landlord, and in his modest 
house Julie established herself almost opposite the 
windows of her sometime patron. Nine hundred 
and fifty livres, with "further forty-two livres ten 
sols as her share of the porter's wage," was no 
immense price for the second and third stories, but 
was a severe charge on her budget. The inventory 
of her effects at decease, and certain unpublished 
documents shown me by Monsieur Gaston Boissier, 
furnish us with a sufficiently clear idea of her 



JULIE'S INCOME 129 

resources. Beyond the small inheritance derived 
from her mother, Julie was at this time the recipient 
of a pension of six hundred and ninety-two livres 
from the Duke of Orleans — granted her on July 
16, 1754, doubtless through the mediation of 
Madame du Deffand — and two other similar "life 
pensions" of uncertain origin, worth six hundred 
and two thousand livres respectively. These last 
pensions were granted her under date May 26, 
1758, and October 6, 1763. Monsieur Gaston 
Boissier's papers say that these were charged on 
"the King's revenues," a statement confirming its 
counterpart in the Mdjnoires de Marmontel, where 
a part of the revenues of Mademoiselle de Lespin- 
asse are said to be derived from Louis XV.'s 
treasury, and to have been secured for her on the 
personal application of the Due de Choiseul. She 
was thus possessed of three thousand five hundred 
and ninety-two livres, enough to support her with 
reasonable care, but quite insufficient to allow of 
"the detraction of a single penny" towards the 
expenses of setting up house. 

Her friends were fortunately at hand. Renault, 
Turgot, d'Usse, and Madame de Chatillon allied 
themselves to provide for her initial needs. The 
Mar^chale de Luxembourg presented her with a 
complete suite of furniture. Finally, d'Alembert 
induced Madame Geoffrin to do more than all the 
rest together. Far from being Julie's friend, she 
knew her by reputation only, but whether moved 
by sincere pity for the distress of which she heard, 
or from a desire to annoy her enemy and " pet 

I 



I30 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

aversion," Madame du Deffand, she now committed 
one of those actions upon the grand scale that were 
dear to her twin passions, ostentation and kind- 
liness. Having chosen her three finest Van Loos, 
she sold them to the Empress of Russia for the 
sum of ten thousand crowns. Part of this com- 
pleted Julie's installation ; the remainder her friend 
invested in the purchase of an annuity of two 
thousand livres from Joseph de la Borde, richest 
of " Bankers to His Majesty." This generous 
gift Madame Geoffrin shortly supplemented with 
a further allowance of a thousand crowns, but so 
secretly that Madame de la Fert6 Imbault, her 
own daughter, had never heard of it until she 
was dead, when the entry was found in her 
mother's accounts. 

Monsieur de Vaines and another unknown 
donor were responsible for yet further help, 
three thousand livres of allowance ; thanks to 
which Mademoiselle de Lespinasse was placed in 
the enjoyment of no less a total than almost eight 
thousand five hundred livres^ a year. If this was 
not wealth, it was a competence, and her style 
of living was consequently quite comfortable. She 
employed four servants — a housemaid, a house- 
keeper, a cook, and a ladies-maid. Her rooms were 
comfortably and conveniently furnished without 
being luxurious. On the second story, a minute 
hall opened into the little drawing-room, in which 
the woodwork was white and the curtains were 
of crimson silk. This room was a trifle crowded 
* Say ;^40o to ^^420. 



SHE CONTRACTS SMALL-POX 131 

by its array of armchairs, stools, ottomans, and 
low seats, soft and admirably adapted for intimate 
conversations. Most of the furniture proper was 
of rosewood, but "a little cabinet of cherry-wood," 
a roll desk, a winding-wheel for wool, a marble 
bust of Voltaire and another of d'Alembert were 
scattered about. Masson was responsible for the 
figure on the clock above the chimney-place. 
Close to this room, and with windows opening 
upon the street, was the bedroom. It also was 
upholstered in crimson silk, and contained a deep 
recess in which a "bedspread d f imperiale'' veiled 
a bed "four-foot across," and enclosed by a variety 
of curtains. A dressing-room and a servants' room 
filled the remainder of this story ; that above it 
contained the kitchen, the housemaid's quarters, 
and several "lumber-rooms" not otherwise used 
at first. Such is a cursory view of the home in 
which Julie was now to pass twelve years, the 
last of her life. 

The installation was, however, destined to end 
with an annoying incident, for Julie was scarcely 
settled-in before she fell ill, and was presently 
announced to be suffering from small-pox. She 
had a particular horror of this illness, but had re- 
fused to undergo inoculation, now becoming a fairly 
general practice, owing to a mistaken idea that a 
childish ailment had been worse than it was, and 
had so made her immune. " I shall never," she 
afterwards wrote, "be consoled for having imagined 
that that was the small-pox. Heavens, what pains 
and woes the trouble would have spared me!" 



132 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Her attack was severe, and her life in danger at 
one time. "Mademoiselle de Lespinasse is danger- 
ously ill of the small-pox," Hume wrote to Madame 
Boufflers, "and I am glad to see that d'Alembert 
has come out of his philosophy at such a moment." 
The philosopher's devotion proved little less than 
heroic, indeed. Caring nothing for his own danger 
or fatigue, he watched by her bed day in and day 
out, leaving his post only to snatch a few hours' 
sleep in his distant lodgings. Her recovery, largely 
due to his care, was very slow, and her health 
suffered from the consequences for years. These 
showed themselves in extreme feebleness and 
terrible neuralgia. Worse than all, her power of 
sight — an hereditary weakness of the Vichys — was 
seriously altered, and constant attacks of ophthalmia 
afterwards compelled her to have frequent need of 
a secretary. Her face was disastrously marked, 
notwithstanding d'Alembert's gallant assertion to 
Hume. " The small-pox has clearly left its mark, 
but it has not disfigured her in the least." With all 
deference to this opinion, her once pleasant features 
were irremediably spoiled, their lines coarsened and 
their complexion lost. Several passages in her 
letters admit this, and bravely as she faced her 
misfortunes she was too much the woman not to 
suffer acutely from a blow of the kind. 

Julie was hardly cured before d'Alembert fell 
ill in turn. So much anxiety and emotion, and so 
many sleepless nights, affected his constitution at 
once. " My stomach could not play me more tricks 
if I asked it to digest all the manufactures and all 



D'ALEMBERT RECOVERS 133 

the talk in France ! " His Spartan habits and 
notorious abstemiousness seemed only to aggravate 
the evil, until he fell into a fever in the spring. 
This was not grave at the outset, but presently- 
increased until his doctor, Bouvard, during an 
entire week, declined to prophesy the consequences. 
He recovered, however, to write to Voltaire : " I 
thought of applying for my pension to the Eternal. 
He certainly would not have treated me worse than 
does Versailles. This fever having set my feet in 
Charon's barque, I am not sure that I should regret 
the passage of his ferry. But, whether for good 
or ill, I did not long have the chance. . . . Either 
the Devil, who is envious of us both, is a bungler, 
or perhaps he consoles himself with the reflection 
that a pleasure deferred is not lost." A period 
of languor and utter prostration followed this 
dangerous time, effects attributed by Bouvard to 
the stifling and unhealthy lodging to which the 
philosopher clung out of gratitude to his foster- 
mother. " A little room," Marmontel calls it, " ill- 
lit, ill-aired, with a very narrow bed like a coffin." 
" A hole in which I could not breathe," its owner 
afterwards confessed. No sooner did convalescence 
permit the thought of removal, than the doctor 
ordered a less insanitary abode. A generous friend, 
the financier Watelet, offered his house near the 
Temple, and with his acceptance of this offer the 
philosopher made his first escape from the petticoats 
of his foster-mother. " Oh wondrous day ! " cried 
Duclos at this news. " D'Alembert is weaned ! " 
We know Julie well enough to need no in- 



134 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

sistence upon her conduct in the matter of this 
illness. Taking her place at the bedside in turn, 
she repaid "like a devoted sister" all the care 
which he had recently expended on herself. " She 
established herself as his nurse in defiance of all 
that might be said or thought," Marmontel says, 
" and no one either thought or whispered anything 
but good of it." But this was by no means all. 
Having saved his life, Julie had no wish that they 
should be separated anew. The upper of her two 
stories contained several unused rooms, simple 
apartments and of small size, but none the less 
better lighted and more healthy than the miserable 
"hole" in which d'Alembert had hitherto been 
content to dwell. He, certainly, could feel no 
aversion from her affectionate suggestion that she 
should sublet these rooms for a moderate rental. 
They would take their meals together, and the 
most exacting friendship could ask no more constant 
comradeship. He accepted, telling his friends that 
the move was made in deference to his doctor's 
advice. ** I feel that plenty of air is essential to 
my health, and I am moving to an apartment where 
I can find this." But his sincerity declines this 
pandering to the conventions when he confesses to 
himself : " Poor foster-mother, fonder of me than 
your own children, I have left you at the call of a 
more tender emotion." The arrangement was soon 
put in force, and the autumn of 1765 found d'Alem- 
bert installed in the joiner's house in Rue Saint 
Dominique, and sharing the existence of her who 
had alone possessed his heart for the past decade. 



PARIS GOSSIPS 135 

Public opinion apart, intercourse of this almost 
conjugal kind was clearly dangerous for a woman 
still young and naturally passionate. Yet the same 
Julie who was presently to become so careful of the 
gossips seems never to have had a thought on the 
score of this audacity. " Nothing," she asserts 
with perfect self-possession, " matters when one is 
thirty and, in the common tongue, pitted^ These 
probably are no real reasons. Her calmness is no 
doubt due rather to the consciousness that her heart 
is safe, and her knowledge of the general belief in 
d'Alembert's perfect honour. " She finished by 
living with him," Rousseau maliciously writes, "that 
is, with honourable intentions, which cannot possibly 
have a second meaning." 

Whatever the particular case, or the general 
laxity of current opinion, we can scarcely believe 
that this strange situation did not provoke com- 
ment at the outset, in any case. When, on his 
arrival in Paris at about this time, Hume's British 
simplicity writes what follows, he probably does no 
more than echo the general whisper : "I have been 
to call upon Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, d'Alem- 
bert's mistress, and really one of the most intelli- 
gent women in Paris." Julie seems untouched by 
such whispers, but her friend is, on the contrary, 
unduly annoyed by them. His temper is short in 
this part of the fearful lover and hopeless aspirant, 
and he thrusts viciously at a harmless gibe from 
Voltaire. '"Stay in Paris, if I am in love,' you 
write. Why on earth do you suggest that I am 
in love ? I have neither the joy nor the misfortune 



136 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

of finding myself in such a condition, and, all else 
apart, I can assure you that my stomach is far 
too feeble to require any further stimulant than its 
daily dinner." His annoyance at once fixes upon 
Madame du Deffand as the real offender, and this 
without further proof or motive than his anger with 
her. " It is quite easy to see who suggested this 
impertinence, and why ; not that I do not prefer to 
be libellously called lovelorn rather than attacked 
upon the other grounds of which certain people are 
quite capable. I was to be made to appear ridi- 
culous, but ridicule of the kind is sorry stuff." The 
papers earn a like denial and like indignation 
when they presently dilate on a possible marriage. 
" Good heavens, I with a wife and children ! My 
wife-to-be is certainly a respectable person, and 
one whose charm and sweetness would make any 
man happy, but she deserves a better settlement 
in life than any I can afford her, and the tie be- 
tween us is neither love nor marriage, but mutual 
esteem and a very charming friendship. We live 
in one house, but so do two others, and this is the 
whole basis of all the gossip." Here follows a fresh 
diatribe against the unfortunate Marquise. " I 
have no doubt that Madame du Deffand is at the 
bottom of the scandal. . . . She knows perfectly 
well that there is no question of my getting married, 
but she wants to pretend that there is a question of a 
very different kind. Infamous old cats like her 
cannot believe in a woman's virtue. Happily, all 
the world knows her, and its belief in her is equal 
to her deserts." 



JULIE AND D'ALEMBERT 137 

The philosopher wasted his time in losing his 
temper. Far more effective than his angry denials 
was the tranquil self-assurance of Julie's attitude. 
Her frank and simple existence, lived in the sight 
of all, and making no attempt at dissembling, swept 
away suspicions and malice, closed the mouth of 
slander, and converted the most obstinate. More 
quickly than she could possibly have hoped, her 
alliance with d'Alembert was universally accepted, 
without a reserve and without an implication. The 
most esteemed and most irreproachable women, 
Madame Necker and Madame Geoffrin at their 
head, made it a point of honour to proclaim the 
purely platonic nature of a connection which they 
endorsed by act and word. "Naples," Galiani 
writes to his friend the Marquis Tanucci, ** would 
proclaim that they are secretly married. Here, 
no one thinks of so needless an assertion. Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse enjoys her own existence, 
loved and esteemed by all, and with the best society 
in Paris crowding round her door." Marmontel 
writes in the same key. "Nothing could be more 
innocent than their intimacy, and it was respected 
for what it was. Even ill-nature held its tongue, 
and so far from finding her repute endangered. 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse only became more 
honourably and more completely respected." 

This intimacy was indeed close and familiar. 
The friendliest husband and wife were never more 
one in counsel or act. All Julie's interests, even 
the most personal, are watched over by d'Alembert 
and are the object of his jealous devotion. Her 



138 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

dividends are collected by him ; he invests her 
savings. For several years, at all events, their calls 
are paid in company, and no host dreams of inviting 
the one without the other. In her only too frequent 
attacks of ophthalmia he acts as her secretary. 
Then, be her letters to her dearest friend or dictated 
from her bed, her bath even, the writing is that of 
this sure confidant. " This Tuesday, from my bath, 
in the which I am . . ." opens a letter to Condorcet. 
Such pages, composed between the pair, often 
convey the impression of a dialogue, each address- 
ing their interlocutor in turn. " My secretary 
never knows what he is saying or doing (this is 
very foolish, the secretary thinks!), and so you 
must not wonder that he takes July for August. 
(The secretary replies, that August was the word 
dictated, and not July, and that he takes down 
what is said to him.)" But this collaboration 
often assumes a more serious form, and embarks 
on more important works. D'Alembert's latest 
biographer assures us that "the influence of 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse is almost continu- 
ously visible from the date of their alliance. He 
loved to have her help in his work, and thus his 
ancient mistress, geometry, can now claim no more 
than occasional hours, while he disposes himself for 
the lighter labours in which his companion can 
follow him. Julie's hand is constantly mingled 
with his own in his manuscripts, so that one should 
rather call them their manuscripts. Page after page, 
signed by him, might just as well be by Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse. She inspires every one." 



THEIR HAPPINESS 139 

These are happy times for our hero and heroine, 
happy according to their two natures and kinds, 
but happy in an almost equal degree. Julie's 
happiness is founded on the apparent security of 
this calm existence. Snatched from her natural 
home when yet a child, and since passed from 
household to household, always a bird of passage 
with no fixed ties, she believes that she has now 
found a port in which she may defy all future storms. 
She is no less pleased by her new feeling of inde- 
pendence, the ability to satisfy her tastes and choose 
her own life, subject to the approval of no other 
mind. Above all, having long suffered from the 
coldness or hostility of those with whom she was 
forced to live, she now tastes the profound joy of 
dwelling in an atmosphere of warm and faithful 
affection. Her first joy and gratitude finds such 
lively expression that its language often seems 
that of love, or such as might at least convey the 
impression of love to a responsive heart. "You 
have so often told me," d'Alembert cries later, 
" that of all the feelings which you have inspired, 
mine for you and yours for me were the only ones 
that never caused you unhappiness ! . . . You did 
at least love me for a moment, and, besides, no one 
either loves or will again love me." Her own 
testimony makes it impossible to doubt that this 
quietude, this delirium of liberty, this infinite 
sweetness of finding herself beloved, flooded her 
soul with such delights that her happiness reached 
moments of intensity when she was, as it were, 
" terrified " by it. 



I40 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Assurances and warmth of this quaHty were 
enough for d'Alembert. His companion's absolute 
faith in him, the certitude that he is the " first 
thought of her heart," the way in which her 
personality stands to him for all that he has 
missed in life, are ample payment for his cease- 
less care and services in her behalf Lonof after- 
wards, when broken with grief, the calling to 
remembrance of this period in his life, and the 
weighing of it against all his recent misfortunes, 
compel him to proclaim himself his friend's still 
undischarged debtor. An elegy, deploring her 
loss, breaks from tears into a dithyramb of pure 
gratitude. "You who loved me, by whom I at 
least believed myself loved ; you to whom I owe 
some joy or the illusion of it ; you whose whilom 
expressions of tenderness, still so sweet a memory, 
require more gratitude from my heart than all else 
that breathes around me ! . . ." There is more 
here than literary exaggeration or poetic hyperbole. 
Facts attest its sincerity, for when, after seven 
years of such common existence, d'Alembert suc- 
ceeded to Duclos' post of perpetual Secretary to 
the Academy in April 1772, he refused that suite 
in the Louvre which was one of the appointments 
of the office. Poor as he was, he never hesitated, 
but chose to retain his humble rooms in the joiner's 
house rather than remove to this free and grand 
apartment. All his gain from the secretaryship 
was a salary of twelve hundred livres, and out of 
this he was compelled to " maintain the Academy 
fire ! " "I should save the wood by feeding the 



MADAME GEOFFRIN 141 

flames with all their fine works," was Madame du 
Deffand's caustic saying. 

The irregular housekeeping of this couple made 
its bow to society under the segis of the same 
woman who had lately afforded such generous 
help to Julie. Madame Geoffrin was d'Alembert's 
oldest friend, even if he had neglected her a little 
during Madame du Deffand's ascendency. On his 
quarrel with the latter, he hastened to return to his 
place in the salon of her famous rival, and warm 
as was the welcome extended to the prodigal, its 
heartiness redoubled when he ushered Julie into 
the charmed circle. Madame de la Ferte Imbault 
records her " extreme astonishment when, return- 
ing from the country one day, I saw in my mother's 
salon a strange face, which I never remembered to 
have seen there before, and the owner of which 
seemed perfectly at home." One easily shares this 
confession of astonishment, for few women could 
appear less like each other than this couple. They 
are poles apart in age, tastes, and character. One 
was always mistress of herself, temperate and calm, 
fitness and moderation the constant study, as they 
were the rule, of her life. The other was all 
passion, impetuous, and for ever agitated by the 
fire that she brought to every act of her life. 
Morellet neatly sums up the contrast by saying 
that "the one asks nothing but to be allowed to 
taste the pleasures of society and friendship in 
peace, while the other's enjoyment is incessantly 
troubled by the very heat of her own affections." 
Contrast or no contrast, however, it remains sure 



142 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

that close friendship sprang up almost at once. 
Each, doubtless, liked the other for those qualities 
in which she was consciously deficient, and esteem, 
founded upon the recognition of a reciprocal honesty 
and sincerity, strengthened the attraction. 

Madame Geoffrin seems to have succumbed 
first. She, at all events, made the first advances. 
The old and experienced virtuoso in the art of 
conducting a salon and leading conversation was 
carried away and astonished by the warm animation 
of words issuing from a sensitive and enthusiastic 
soul, yet restrained by the finest tact and most 
sensitive taste. She could not fail to see that such 
a recruit might add inestimable interest to the 
conversation, and charm to the gatherings, of 
which she was so proud. She numbered Julie de 
Lespinasse among the guests at her Monday and 
Wednesday dinners, and no sooner was the new- 
comer admitted than she became the crown-jewel, 
the chief attraction, the star round which so many 
famous satellites moved. But Julie's success was 
still incomplete. Strange to relate, she even 
conquered the masterful soul which ruled the 
Encyclopaedia, and in whom her contemporaries 
acclaimed "the hand of Alexander." Madame 
Geoffrin was presently so enslaved that she could 
not contemplate the idea of separation from this 
dear intimate, demanded her constant companion- 
ship, and treated her less as a friend than as a 
daughter — one of those dear spoiled daughters 
who command rather than obey, and whose 
desires are law. 



HER ALLIANCE WITH JULIE 143 

Julie can hardly be blamed for accepting so 
sweet and motherly an affection, the less that she 
never trespassed upon it. Nor may one blame 
her if some years of such treatment led her to 
assume the carriage and airs of a true daughter 
of the house, yet never to fail in respect or sincere 
and disinterested devotion. Yet, despite her real 
innocence, Julie de Lespinasse has not escaped 
the severest strictures or the most cruel suspicions. 
My Royaume de la Rue Saint Honor e recounted 
the tale of jealousy, fears, and outrageous im- 
putations directed against her by the lawful 
daughter of the house, and I have quoted whole 
pages in which the Marquise de la Ferte Imbault 
indulges her angry indignation, in the most violent 
terms, at the spectacle of this "usurping" stranger 
in undisputed possession of the heart and home of 
her mother. I have clearly shown the baseless 
nature of these accusations, but the impatience 
from which they sprang is natural enough. 
D'Alembert and Julie — inseparable in this con- 
text — were, however venially, in the wrong when 
they declined to use a proper degree of tact, and 
over-loudly proclaimed their exclusive position in 
the first salon of the century. 

Daily at first, but later twice every day, the 
pair arrived in company, and remained for whole 
hours together alone with Madame Geoffrin, or 
helping to receive her numerous visitors and to 
lead the conversation. So completely did they 
feel at ease, and so completely at home, that they 
frequently caused letters to be directed to the 



144 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

house. If Madame de la Fert6 Imbault is to be 
believed, the "usurpation" went even further, for 
she protests that her mother, at one time so exces- 
sively jealous of her authority, finally resigned an 
integral part of it to Julie, who thereafter admitted, 
or refused admission, to the salon at her own will. 

One point in all this tangle is all that need be 
noticed here. Whatever advantages Julie gained 
from her intimacy with Madame Geoffrin, they were 
not of that interested kind assumed by persons who 
did not really know her, and which were as far 
from her thoughts as they were impossible to one 
of her character. She reaped great moral advan- 
tages, and they were none the less valuable for 
being of no more tangible kind. Her judgment of 
persons and things became more moderate. She 
learned a conduct more clever and more wise, 
coming to hold her friends by little kindnesses, 
constant attentions, even, on occasion, by yielding 
a point or making a real sacrifice. To the lessons 
and example derived from her septuagenarian 
friend, she largely owed such calm and repose as 
mark the early years of her enfranchisement — the 
years of which she was afterwards to say, that they 
were the only truly happy part of her life. Nor 
was she less indebted to Madame Geoffrin, and 
the friendships made under her eye or among her 
friends, for the first establishment of her own 
reputation and the foundation of that salon which 
was afterwards, and for long, the prime interest 
of her existence. 

To found a salon was the dream of many women 



JULIE FOUNDS A SALON 145 

of the time — and to found a real salon, no mere 
congeries of invited guests, or room through which 
men pass and are no more seen, but a homogeneous 
society, a discipHned group with its own especial 
tone, and a species of moral singleness, however 
diverse its members, was an ambitious dream in 
an age when so many established rivals seemed 
to protest the folly of rivalry. Madame du Deffand 
was now at the height of her fame, seeing, to quote 
the Abb6 Delille, 

"Europe, a threefold circle, round her chair ! " 

The Marquise du Deffand was avowedly leader 
of the wittiest company. In Madame Necker's 
luxurious hotel in Rue de Clery, a rather grave 
assemblage was already meeting to discuss the 
grand problems of to-day and to-morrow, theorising^ 
and formulating the ideas which the Revolution 
was presently to proclaim as its facts. Three so 
famous assemblies, to name no others, surely dis- 
countenanced the hope that a young and poor 
woman, and one of irregular origins, could found 
a rival under their shadow, and this in the poor 
apartments of a joiner's house, handicapped by a 
lack of means which was content, says Grimm, to 
proffer "somewhat to digest" since it could afford 
neither dinner, supper, nor collation. Her success 
was no less astonishing than rapid. In the space 
of a few months, the modest room with the crimson 
blinds was nightly filled, between the hours of six 
and ten, by a crowd of chosen visitors, courtiers, 
and men of letters, soldiers and churchmen, ambas- 

K 



146 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

sadors and great ladies, the whole innumerable 
host of the Encyclopaedia — leaders, auxiliaries, 
and sharpshooters alike, each and all gaily jostling 
elbows as they struggled up the narrow wooden 
stairs, unregretting, and forgetting in the ardour of 
their talk the richest houses in Paris, their suppers 
and balls, the Opera, and the futile lures of the 
grand world. 

D'Alembert's official patronage of, and constant 
presence at, these receptions was one real and very 
apparent cause of their success. I certainly shall 
not contest the intellectual dominance of woman 
in the eighteenth century, or her governance, on 
which so much has been written, "unwearied, un- 
assuaged, and without intermission " in the domain 
of ideas — the period's revenge, so to speak, for so 
many centuries of masculine supremacy. I would 
not even deny that woman frequently showed her- 
self worthy of this supremacy by the breadth of 
her interests, her culture and intellect, her zeal to 
learn all and understand all, to walk abreast with 
the times, whether in literature, science, or politics. 
No age, moreover, has been better aware of the 
charm and profit with which, be the assemblage 
never so grave or the theme so high, the lined 
brows of learned men, thinkers and reformers, 
may mingle with such faces as Latour has im- 
mortalised. Fine features, a lively eye, a laughing 
lip ready with the instant word, animate and point 
a debate, moderate the heat of this one or spur 
the sluggishness of that, bring back to reality 
thoughts soaring among the clouds, or prick, with 



THE CONDUCT OF A SALON 147 

delicate skill, the windbags of theoretical dreamers. 
"Society," opines Morellet, "needs this condiment 
as coffee needs sugar. I know men who do not 
require sugar in their coffee, but I have no respect 
for them on that score." 

A properly regulated salon of the time, yet 
more " a shop of bright wits," habitually sought the 
discreet presidency and spiritual leadership of one 
of those patent guides, "the Saints of the En- 
cyclopaedia," whose influence had replaced priestly 
authority among enfranchised womankind. " The 
necessity under which we labour of passing judg- 
ment upon each day's novelty," remarks a clear- 
headed stranger, " compels each house to maintain 
a wit, videlicet a person to form its opinion on what- 
ever matter is in hand." Every intellectual circle, 
therefore, owns its philosopher. He gives tone to 
the discussions, guides opinion upon men and things, 
and lightly guides the faithful in the narrow way of 
the new gospel. Fontenelle long played this part 
in Madame Geoffrin's salon. Grimm played it for 
Madame d'Epinay, and Diderot for Baron d'Hol- 
bach. Mademoiselle de Lespinasse found her guide 
in d'Alembert, first-lieutenant of Voltaire, promoter 
of the Encyclopaedia, and as diverse in his talents 
as he was a pattern in his morals ; possibly the man 
of all Europe who stood second only to the patri- 
arch of Ferney. " D'Alembert can be found no- 
where else," affirmed Abbe Galiani. " Here he is 
always to be seen, elsewhere never." The lustre 
and prestige which he conferred on the little gather- 
ings in the Rue Saint Dominique may be imagined^ 



148 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

nor need any further explanation be sought for the 
instantaneous success of a salon which came to birth 
under such a star. 

But, whatever the truth of all this, Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse must justly be credited with the feat 
of having herself fashioned the great place which 
she holds in contemporary society. D'Alembert 
might attract men ; she held them and made them 
her own. Chance visitors aspire to become familiars 
of her circle because she is its leader. She is the 
"soul and charm" of this variegated company, and 
her want of personal beauty prolongs rather than 
hinders the duration of her success, for no woman 
was yet a loser when she need fear neither the 
passage of her youth nor the ravages of time. 
Eighteenth-century taste was not, indeed, enslaved 
to a virgin soul or a cheek in its first bloom. As a 
correspondent writes to Walpole, " Englishwomen 
do not find that the years between thirty and forty 
bring them their most numerous triumphs. You 
will see that Paris favours them then far more than 
when they are extremely young." Julie de Lespi- 
nasse was irresistible, but her fascination depended 
upon far less transitory charms than a pleasant face 
or fresh complexion. Her success rested, above all, 
on that marvellous gift incessantly noted by contem- 
porary observers — the power of constantly making 
herself a new person, of being ever with each and 
all, of spending on every subject the clear bright- 
ness of her intelligence ; and all this without seeking 
to be witty, but rather to draw out the wit of her 
companions to the fullest possible extent. "She 



JULIE SALONI^RE 149 

could bring into harmony persons of the most dis- 
similar intelligence," avers Grimm, "often indeed 
those who were very antitheses to each other, 
without seeming to- exert herself in the least. A 
single adroit word from her gave new life to con- 
versation, sustained it or turned it as she pleased. 
No subject seemed without interest for her, and there 
was none in which she could not interest others. 
. . . Her genius seemed omnipresent, and one 
might imagine that some invisible charm was con- 
stantly turning each man's interest back to their 
common source." 

Grimm's penetrating eye here seizes upon the 
particular gift, one might say the social secret, of 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. However eager her 
conversation, it was always refined, elegant, and 
anxious to please. Her subtle intuition and cor- 
rect taste immediately perceived the strength and 
weakness of a companion, what will interest, and 
the suitable mode of address. " Her talk," says 
Guibert, " was never above or beneath a man. 
She seemed to possess a key to all characters, the 
measure and exact quality of all spirits." Having 
learned that the surest road to the heart is to seem 
lost in its owner, her best friends seldom heard her 
speak of herself, but were themselves her continual 
theme." She was the soul of a conversation, never 
its subject, and if this sustained habit implies 
much contrivance, it cost her less than might be 
supposed. She was a born taster of the talents 
and qualities of those with whom she came in con- 
tact, and her pleasure lay in unravelling and sharp- 



ISO JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

ening these. " My lively appreciation of any in- 
teresting quality in my companions made them 
believe me an amiable person," she once wrote, 
and she returns to the same theme in this: "I 
have felt a hundred times that I pleased a man 
because his spirit or taste pleased me, and the 
usual reason for liking me is the belief or percep- 
tion that I am impressed. . . . This proves at once 
the poverty of my own spirit, and the impression- 
able nature of my soul. In all this I am neither 
vain nor modest, but a simple dealer in the truth." 

This interest in her surroundings, and capacity 
for entering into the heart and mind of others, are 
no doubt a partial consequence of the innate desire 
to please, and that hunger for conquest, already so 
well known to us. But all this follows readily on 
her eclectic taste, that open quality of her mind 
which makes it easy for her to understand every 
sort of idea, the various forms of thought, each and 
all of the multitudinous manifestations of human 
activity. " I am happy enough in my ability to 
care for things apparently the very contrary of each 
other. ... It is seldom that I fail to see both sides 
of a question, and those sides are possibly anti- 
pathetic only for those who are always in the judg- 
ment-seat, and cursed with the incapacity for feel- 
ing. ... I eschew comparisons, and only enjoy." 
When a friend asks her to justify her approbation 
of a new opera, she replies, "You know very well 
that I never think, and do not judge ; " and she pro- 
ceeds to explain that " impressions " are enough for 
her, for they are real if sometimes extreme. " You 



FREEDOM IN HER SALON 151 

never heard me call a thing good or bad, but I 
express my likings a thousand times a day, and I 
can say of all things what the witty lady said of her 
two nephews : ' / like my eldest nephew for his 
wits, and my youngest because hes such an ass ! " 
So expansive a mind is naturally tolerant. 
" Monsieur d'Alembert has been to ' Harlequin,' 
and likes it better than * Orpheus.' Every one's 
opinion is right, and I certainly will not criticise 
tastes. Good is a word that applies to every- 
thing." 

One can imagine the easy intercourse and out- 
spoken manner current in a salon ruled by such 
principles. Independence and variety are its watch- 
words, and the characteristic distinction among all 
rivals. Madame Geoffrin's flock are bound under 
a strict law. The tyrannical wisdom and rough 
tolerance of this arbitrary daughter of the middle 
classes bind their ranks in salutary fear. The 
crozier of " Dom Burigny, that short-skirted Bene- 
dictine " and guardian of order, is quickly out- 
stretched to snatch back within the narrow way, be 
the error never so small, any expression or idea, 
doctrine or person. ** One mayn't utter a word," 
groans a victim, piteously resistant. Madame du 
Deffand certainly maintains no such policeman, but 
her profession of enlightened indifference towards 
large questions, and her disdainful scepticism and 
horror of " reasonings," banish the highest themes 
from her salon. Morality, religion, or politics are 
hardly admitted, and, even so, seldom otherwise than 
as material for raillery and epigrams. Madame 



152 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Necker talks of little else than social economics 
and the political situation. Dissertations rather 
than conversation are the rule round her table, 
until her friendly suppers might really seem an 
assembly of statesmen or some academic session. 
More than in any other quarter, perhaps in this 
alone, the gatherings in the little salon of Rue 
Saint Dominique are exempt from restraint and 
monotony alike. Words are bolder and more 
spontaneous here than in Rue Saint Honore, 
more serious and deeper than in the Convent of 
Saint Joseph, less solemn and more sparkling than 
in the mansion in Rue de Clery. No subject is 
proscribed, no restriction imposed. Philosophic 
and literary questions alternate without effort or 
apparent intention ; politics displace history, and 
yield to discussions of great events or to the pettiest 
social gossip. The jest of the day circulates, and 
last night's play is criticised. Then suddenly, with 
never a note of warning, some sublime or eternal 
problem demands attention. "General talk," avers 
Grimm, "never languished here, but, under no 
obligation, the company turned to other issues as 
it felt moved." Here was neither constraint nor 
yoke — in one word, no barriers but those of 
decency. Intellect and temperament were allowed 
full play, and every character had full licence to 
develop its own bent. And yet, out of this 
republic of tastes, a very seeming land of an- 
archy, " the delicate genius " of Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse was able to compass a real unity. " She 
found them, anywhere," says Marmontel, writing 



HER SYMPATHY 153 

of her guests, "yet they were so well assorted that 
harmony reigned within her doors, as though the 
company were an instrument of many strings, each 
obedient to her touch. . . . And her conduct of the 
instrument amounted to grenius." Fear lest she be 
vexed, and desire to please her, are the only rules 
under her roof, and suffice for perfect government. 
She is uncontested queen in the intellectual tourney, 
and her smile alone stands gage for the challenges 
of wit or eloquence. The best encouragement and 
the rarest recompense are her smile or an approving 
word. 

Julie de Lespinasse was exceptionally fortunate 
in that the members of her salon were almost always 
her friends — yet another point in which her circle 
stands alone among all competitors. Madame 
Geoff"rin is feared, Madame du Deffand admired, 
and Madame Necker respected. Julie alone is 
loved. "She had such a gift of sympathy that 
there was never yet man who, after a fortnight's 
acquaintance, would have hesitated to confide his 
story to her ears. And yet, while no woman ever 
owned so many friends, each was happy in seeming 
the sole possessor of her affections." Better still, 
this irresistible motion of all hearts towards a 
common centre created a bond of sympathy, the 
sense of unity. In rival gatherings, the new-comer 
is viewed with hostile eyes, every member jealous 
of the rest, the whole mass infected with secret 
hates and mute cabals, Julie's faithful understand, 
appreciate, and support each other, and one of them 
cries, after her death, " We all felt friends before 



154 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

her, because the same feelings had drawn us to- 
gether. Alas, how many saw each other, sought 
one another, and were agreed together in her who, 
now that she is gone, will be no more seen, sought, 
or desired of any one of us all." This comradeship 
was purely her work. Her coquetry was of this 
kind, that all who love her must, so to speak, com- 
municate in their passionate affection for her. All 
her skill is set to seal and fortify — be the persons, 
their ideas, or social rank never so different in origin, 
— a sentimental association, a brotherly alliance, 
of which herself is both cause, end, and means. 

It is hardly necessary to insist on the power 
of such a mutual understanding, the influence at the 
disposal of so firm a band of men of the world and 
men of talent. It was a reasonable enough saying 
that, if the official assizes of the Encyclopaedia were 
housed in Rue Saint Honore, the little apart- 
ment in Rue Saint Dominique contained its 
"laboratory." Here, in truth, were most often 
formulated those definite decisions upon men and 
things which were current in next day's Paris, 
which created reputations, made and sometimes 
unmade great men, extended or withdrew the 
patent of immortality. Here, too, it may be 
said that the Academy chose its new members. 
A list of candidates for every vacancy was 
drawn out within this "family circle," and its 
favourite was more than likely to carry the 
real election. D'Alembert's '' dictatorship," to 
use the consecrated phrase — the academical dic- 
tatorship which was soon to be made so easy by 



POWER OF HER SALON 155 

his official position as perpetual secretary — seems 
to have been an absolute control rather than that 
of a faction-leader. But, despot that he was, his 
daily counsellor wore the petticoats of Julie de 
Lespinasse, and he was constantly controlled by the 
deliberative assembly of her salo7z, even at times 
subjected to its direct veto. 

This assembly, again, finding its credit in the 
literary world insufficient to stay ambition, pre- 
sently stretched out a hand towards the ship of the 
State. If Madame du Deffand once owned "her 
minister" in Choiseul, Julie de Lespinasse might 
Surely aspire to possess hers in Turgot ! Yet, 
even so, she never abused her power, and we 
shall see that this passing fortune did not turn her 
head. Her real ambition lay within the domain of 
intellect ; and within its bounds, for ten long years — 
though with less external pomp, less European 
renown, than Madame Geoffrin — she and her friends 
ruled with a reality, completeness, and directness 
unknown to this or any other rival. 



CHAPTER VI 

Friendships of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Condorcet — His entire devotion 
to Julie — He defers to her advice — She plays the part of reason against 
love in his regard — Suard — Julie secures his election to the Academy — 
Her affection for, and testimonial to her confidence in him — The Chevalier 
de Chastellux — Dissimilarity between his character and that of Julie — 
Her vexation at this, but her just appreciation of his merits — Her great 
services to him — Women in the salojt of Rue Saint Dominique — 
Countess de Boufflers — Madame de Marchais — ^Jealousy of Julie on their 
account — The Duchesse de Chatillon — She wins Julie's heart. 

"Here," wrote Sebastian Mercier in his Tableau 
de Paris, "the man of sense must choose himself a 
woman-friend. Here, there are many of them who, 
accustomed to think from an early age, are more 
free and more enlightened than elsewhere, overpass 
the barriers of prejudice, and possess themselves of 
a man's strong soul, yet never relinquish the sensi- 
bilities of their sex. . . . Woman can prove an 
excellent friend at thirty." The personal chronicle 
of the eighteenth century clearly demonstrates the 
truth of this passage. It is an endless record of 
attachments, loveless in the true meaning of that 
term, yet in which a woman proves man's faithful 
and disinterested friend — a friend at once more 
attentive and of finer and more delicate instincts 
than a fellow-man can possess, ever ready to help 
in difficult circumstances, to share his sorrows as 
well as his joys, and to uplift his soul in hours of 
trouble or disg-race. 

I have already indicated the frequency with 

IS6 



JULIE ON "FRIENDSHIP" 157 

which Mademoiselle de Lespinasse had the happy 
fortune to inspire this pure and consoling senti- 
ment. She suffered its claims no less, and enjoyed 
all its benefits and pleasures, while, as her nature 
was, importing a certain exaltation into both. This 
celebration of its joys and charms is quite in the 
lyric vein. " Friendship is my one pleasure and 
one interest. It sustains and consoles me, and I 
exist only to love and cherish my friends. Amiable, 
honest, and generous friends, what do I not owe to 
you ! " When, in the days of distress, she is ready 
to shrink from the proof, she calls on these same 
friends to rally her failing courage: "Come, come 
to my rescue, to give me new heart," she writes to 
one of them. " Come, that 1 may say that my day 
has not been wholly lost ! I would blot out from 
my life each day on which I have not seen a 
friend ! " In the letters of the calm period, soon 
to come, during which her larger experience plays 
mentor to the youth of Abel de Vichy, she insist- 
ently recommends friendship and the innocent joys 
of the heart as the grand secret of happiness. " At 
your age, my dear friend, happiness must be the 
child of feeling. The harshest burden of old age 
is that the well-springs of love run dry. Then, 
the soul becomes warped and bent upon itself, and 
we live by scorn alone. Be kind to your sensibili- 
ties. They are the fount of all true and single 
pleasures." 

Thus Julie counsels her brother, and a moment's 
survey of the privileged many whose lives touched 
hers, or who gained a share in the treasures of her 



158 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

heart, will prove that she practised what she advised. 
Apart from d'Alembert — unique in his position, 
midway, as one may say, between that of a lover 
and a friend — the man who stood highest in her 
confidence and sympathy was indubitably Condorcet. 
This selection does not seem the most natural at 
first sight, for, attractive as was his face, it was still 
cold and inexpressive, while an extreme negligence 
in dress and carriasfe — he was round-shouldered and 
carried his head bent forward — were not, in society 
at all events, atoned for by surpassing brilliance. 
He spoke little, and that usually in monosyllables, 
and appeared self-absorbed and preoccupied, although 
few things really escaped a cynical observation of that 
dangerous kind which no one mistrusts because it is 
so unsuspected. He was a mathematician of the 
first order, a member of the Academy of Science at 
the age of twenty-six, and therefore not unnaturally 
expected to make himself a great name in this direc- 
tion. " I thought him a better man than myself," 
records Fontaine, "and was properly jealous." But 
this geometrician immediately adds, " He has since 
reassured me!" Condorcet, indeed, had an insatiable 
appetite for information; a trait in his character which, 
leading him to investigate all things and all men, 
rapidly brought him down to the place of a *' popular- 
iser," the brilliant interpreter of others rather than an 
inventor or creator in his own right. This scattering 
of his abilities, joined to a similar parcelling out of 
his affections, did not fail to reveal itself to Julie's 
clear eye. "He works for ten hours a day," she 
says, with a thought of irony, "and has twenty 



CONDORCET 159 

correspondents and ten intimate friends. All thirty- 
might, quite naturally, suppose themselves the first 
object of his thoughts. Never, ah! never has man 
lived so many lives, enjoyed such opportunities, or 
found such felicity ! " 

While these faults might seriously endanger 
Condorcet's worldly success and scientific reputa- 
tion, they did but make him a more pleasant 
companion. The range of his interests and his 
prodigious memory enabled him to treat of the 
most diverse subjects, given only a circle suf^ci- 
ently small not to arouse his timidity — " Philosophy, 
belles lettres, science, art, government, jurisprudence," 
says Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, " and having once 
heard him, you must a hundred times a day declare 
that here is the most astonishing man ever met. 
One might attribute to his intelligence that especial 
faculty of the Lord, and call it infinite and present, 
if not everywhere at all events wherever there is 
anything." Even his capacity for scattering his 
affections, and that "universal good nature" which 
bordered on weakness, invested him with a kindli- 
ness to touch any sensitive soul. " He is a free 
lover," went the saying, " but then he loves well." 
Contemporaries also unite in remarking his real 
helpfulness, his active zeal to " sympathise and 
succour," and this at real personal cost. " Possibly 
he has never told a friend ' I love you,' but he has 
never missed an opportunity of proving the fact. 
Not one of them can ever have desired a clearer 
attestation of it than he has voluntarily proffered." 
Julie, author of this encomium, can only call him 



i6o JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

' Condorcet the good.' In their most strained hours 
he is still "Condorcet, the sometime good." 

Condorcet seems to have deserved her admira- 
tion, although in certain tragical circumstances his 
conduct did not merit this epithet. But from the 
day when d'AIembert introduced him to Julie, no 
attentions were too great for her. Ever at her 
service and her feet, the least word brings him 
straight to Rue Saint Dominique. " Here am I 
back in Paris," he writes to Turgot, "and, of 
course, off to my usual post as Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse's secretary." She was not slow, indeed, 
to elevate him to the dignity of " vice-secretary " ; 
and when the habitual bearer of the title is absent, 
Condorcet, at the post, rivals his zeal, and stands 
only second to him in the heart of their common 
mistress. " I cannot better express my affection for 
Messieurs de Condorcet and d'AIembert than by 
saying, that they are almost a single person in my 
eyes, as essential to me as the air we breathe. 
They do not trouble my soul but possess it." 
Finally, when she is bowed under the sad burden 
of a secret that cannot, and for good cause, be 
shared with the loving d'AIembert, Condorcet 
divides with another, whose name will shortly 
appear, the confidence, if not in its entirety, still in 
sufficient degree to be able to perceive its burden 
of struggles, the pain, and the agony. For such 
a part he was well fitted, having an impenetrable 
reserve which made indiscreet curiosity impossible 
and himself an inviolable repository, certain " to 



CONDORCET i6i 

keep whatever one places within it." His hand is 
also skilled, and never too obvious, in soothing a 
wound and quieting the smart of secret stabs, 
while his fine tact is quick to seize the word that 
distracts and lulls — truly the right consolation. 
Thus, little by little, he becomes essential to Julie, 
nor is she ever at the pains to deny it. ** Good 
God, how I love you for your goodness ! You 
have become very necessary to me, and I should 
therefore hate you, for my necessities cause me 
endless woe." The shortest absence calls up re- 
grets for his lost company. She " desolately " finds 
" my sadness doubled every day until the hour 
when I shall again see you." 

From the height of her ten years' seniority she 
instils a thought of protection and motherliness 
into these tender feelings. The advice and good 
counsel with which her letters to him teem, fre- 
quently descend to the smallest details. " My care 
for your education is concerned even with your 
absence. Never gnaw your nails or your lips. 
Nothing is more indigestible, so famous doctors 
assure me. . . . Look to your ears, which are 
always full of powder, and to your hair, which is 
always so cropped that you must really be careful 
or your cranium will come much too near your hat. 
. . . You drink too much coffee for the good of 
your nerves. ... It is foolish to work at your 
geometry like a fool, to sup like an ogre, and to 
sleep no more than a hare. You can be sure that 
it is I, and not my secretary (d'Alembert), who write 



i62 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

all this, for he could never have composed Voltaire's 
verse on Time — 

' For all consumes him ; love alone employs.' 

He would have written — 

' Consumes him all, and algebra employs.' " 

I might quote endless proofs of such solicitude, 
but Julie's chief concern is with her friend's soul. 
Here, she is a priceless counsellor, and never was 
counsel more to the point. Condorcet, the dog- 
matic writer, and concise in argument, vacillates, 
and has no will when conduct is in question. " A 
wad of cotton saturated in fine liqueurs," Madame 
Roland called him at a later date, and he was even 
more "saturated" at this time, when he suffered 
greatly on account of a certain sentiment. Made- 
moiselle d'Usse, a heartless coquette, had him in 
her toils, and was fully employed in playing with 
flames that she in no sort of way shared. Con- 
dorcet, hovering between doubt and illusion, exal- 
tation and despair, was too truly involved to retain 
a clear perception of her play, and Julie had the 
courage to open his eyes and help him to sunder 
the toils. " Pull yourself together," she writes to 
him, "and abandon a dream from which you will 
never get either pleasure or consolation. Be happy 
in your friends, and do not subject them to the pain 
of seeing you degraded by self-imposed servitude to 
a person whose friend, even, you say that you can 
never be. You were never formed to play the tide- 
waiter, or fill the place of a complaisant person." 
She repeats the truism that flight before love is 



HIS RELATIONS WITH JULIE 163 

often the strong man's part, exhorts him to " hold 
a little more by your own strength, bravely remove 
himself from the sight of so ungrateful a person, 
and even refrain from all correspondence, whatever 
the consequent reproaches or pleading. For," 
she cleverly adds, "this denying you your happi- 
ness makes it your duty at least to do nothing in 
support of a disposition so hurtful to your life. 
I know very well that a sentiment is often dearer 
than its inspiration, but to consider how uninterest- 
ing one has been to people who might have claimed 
the sacrifice of very life, is to be not humiliated but 
disgusted, also, surely, chilled." 

In this way, Julie long lifts up her voice in the 
desert — as wise for another as she is, at the same 
moment, improvident towards herself. But two 
years of vain effort bore fruit at last, and she had 
the joy of seeing her counsel accepted and her 
friend freed. " I am quite delighted to hear you 
say that your soul shall no longer be troubled by the 
kindness or unkindness of Rue des Capucines. . . . 
Feeling spells so much pain that it should at least 
bring some reward, and where is this to be found 
in devotion to a quarter which offers no response ? " 
Here are wisdom and prudence indeed, but there is 
something as piquant as it is unexpected in Julie de 
Lespinasse urging, and urging with such warmth, 
the dull claim of prudence against the waywardness 
of the heart, of reason against love. 

This common-sense discernment of, and pas- 
sionate desire to serve, her friend's best interests 
are equally apparent in the relations of Mademoi- 



i64 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

selle de Lespinasse with another man, but little 
less dear to her than " Condorcet the good." " In 
God's name," she exhorts Suard, " be interested in 
your own concerns. I fear that you are singularly 
negligent there, and the idea troubles me more than 
a little. I would wish you some joy, did I believe 
that we find it in this sad life. But some calm 
and repose we may have, and I would fain see 
you enjoy them, untouched by the discomforts of 
ill-luck. I do not fear poverty for myself, esteem- 
ing it but the lack of an advantage ; but in respect 
to a friend, I feel it as a real pain." Julie writes 
to the point, for, " poor enough to die of hunger," 
Suard had married a girl with no other portion 
than her intellect and beauty, and was, at least 
in his youth, precisely one of those men who 
live from hand to mouth, take no thought for 
to-morrow, and trust the day's bread to fortune. 
This exaggeration of unworldliness, part careless- 
ness and part pride, absolutely enraged Madame 
Geoffrin, titular patroness of the famished writer. 
Her indignation, when he one day missed a 
lucrative post for sheer lack of putting out a 
hand to take it, found vent in the vexed cynicism, 
"Beggars' pride is luxury indeed!" "Per contra, 
Madame," was Suard's smart retort, " it's their 
necessity, for without it what else have they?" 

Less brutally no doubt, and certainly with 
better success, Julie reiterates the same truth, 
and manfully struggles to establish the fortunes 
of this careless man. Despite his active resist- 
fince, she forces him to stand for the chair in the 



HER RELATIONS WITH SUARD 165 

Academy left vacant by the death of Duclos. The 
interesting note which closed this struggle has 
come down to us : "In reason's name, I demand 
to be occasionally considered reasonable ; and in 
friendship's name, and that of the tender interest 
I have in you, I demand that you cease to stand 
in the way of your own interests, and the desire 
of the friends who have combined to persuade 
you to seek admission to the Academy. If only 
that these Academicians may be prevented from 
electing a flat or a nobody, you are in conscience 
bound to force them to select yourself. I'm not 
going to cite the infallible reasons which support 
such a pretension on your part. Every member 
of that body, at least every one worth the mention, 
knows and feels those reasons as well as myself. 
For heaven's sake, do not fly in the face of justice, 
right feeling, and interest, and do not hurt me, 
your friend, by declining to pursue what may be 
for your pleasure and advantage alike. Farewell ! 
I am ill and foolish, but I love you well." 

With marvellous unanimity, d'Alembert's party 
flung all their weight into the scales in support 
of this laggard candidate, and Suard triumphed 
in a stiffly-contested election. But the victory 
was scarcely won before an unforeseen mischance 
came to justify his original objections. The King, 
at this moment embroiled with the Philosophers, 
declined to ratify the election when it was sub- 
mitted for his customary acceptance. Prince de 
Beauvau, at Julie's special plea, argued the cause 
of a writer " of irreproachable morals, and who 



i66 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

has never written a single word against religion." 
His generous warmth spent itself in vain. Louis 
XV. proved inflexible, and maintained his veto, 
giving no other reason than that " his connections 
displeased me, and I will have none of such." 
Suard had therefore to remain on the threshold 
of the promised land, and Prince de Beauvau was 
the only person to profit by the affair, since the 
entire world of letters joined hands to laud his 
courage, spirit, justice, and impartiality. " For 
myself," concluded Madame du Deffand, with her 
usual kindliness, " I could wish that he had re- 
served them for some more important subject. 
It's small honour, this protecting pedants and 
cowards. But I hold my tongue, for what do 
such things matter to me, after all ? " 

The Academy was avenged two years later, 
and Julie with it. The accession of Louis XVI. 
was, notoriously, considered as a victory of the 
Encyclopaedists over "the devout," of reason and 
tolerance over " superstition " and " fanaticism." 
Suard's succession to a chair seemed proof of 
these new tendencies. He was elected for the 
second time hardly a month after the new King's 
accession, and took his place unopposed in the 
midst of the friends whom the obstinate energies 
of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse had once more 
rallied under the banner of his name. Her joy 
was immense, and a touching delicacy directed 
its expression to Madame Suard. " I compliment 
you, Madame, and share your pleasure so truly 
and with such real interest that I feel tempted to 



CHARACTER OF SUARD 167 

believe that it is you who should congratulate me. 
At least, stand persuaded that I yield to no one 
but yourself the right to claim for Monsieur Suard 
a truer affection than is mine, or to take a more 
tender interest in all that touches him. Receive, 
I pray you, the tender assurance of feelings vowed 
to you for so long as I do live." 

Such enthusiasm might certainly astonish those 
who judged Suard by his works, and Grimm's 
critical sense seems to foresee this surprise when 
he writes, shortly after the election : " Many 
decline to recognise his title to this honour, but 
all who know him are persuaded that the man 
is its sufficient justification." Suard's name, and 
his real ascendency over his friends, depended, 
indeed, on his personality far more than on his acts. 
Tall and finely built, and of a countenance at 
once noble and thoughtful, his natural distinction 
rose superior to the airs and graces characteristic 
of most literary men of the day. He fascinated 
by an irresistible charm of speech at once warm 
and deliberate, a conversation now light and now 
serious, ever varied and never pedantic. His wit 
was fine, and his discrimination sure, while his 
kindly and sensible nature made him a most 
lovable companion. "To succeed so well at all 
seasons and on all occasions is a gift and not an 
art," writes a biographer. 

These vital qualities explain both Suard's power 
in life and the disdainful indifference which has 
since fallen upon his name. They completely won 
him the heart of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. His 



168 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

conversation was one of the attractions of her salon^ 
and his kindliness a joy of her life. Their friend- 
ship was still young when we find them exchanging 
notes, lightly coquettish on the one side, on the 
other almost gallant — a rare thing in Julie's corre- 
spondence with her friends. " Would you, were it 
but for the novelty of the thing, come and dine 
with me, that is, perish of hunger and boredom ? 
Friendship proposes this ; hatred could find no 
more cruel invitation. I shall be truly pleased if 
you accept, but your refusal might still be a stroke 
of luck, for I should not then expose myself to the 
disgust and weariness that my circumstances, and 
their effect upon me, must inspire. . . . Farewell, 
and may the goodness and kindness of your nature 
supply you with that pleasure which you will not 
find in my company." "You often complain," he 
replied in like mood, " that words are unable to 
express your feelings. You would wound any heart 
if you measured my words so. A man never ex- 
presses his whole feeling, for that has a thousand 
shades which find no form in words. . . . Alas, you 
must needs be left to guess all the sweet things, 
flattery and tenderness, that my heart feels for you. 
Yet, believe me, there is but one sentiment more 
real than is mine for you, and that is the one senti- 
ment which you would find in no way welcome." 

This epoch is of short duration, for the note 
soon changes, and banter yields place to sad and 
serious confidences. When her passionate soul 
seeks ease in confession, Julie unburdens herself 
to Suard even more freely than to Condorcet. To 



THEIR INTIMACY 169 

him alone she can speak, openly and directly, first 
of her love for Monsieur de Mora, later of that 
which she justly calls her "folly," the passion which 
saps her strength, and shrouds her last days in 
remorse and sombre despair. " Good God, why 
is one coward enough to continue to live when 
all hope has gone, still more when the search for 
happiness discovers neither in one's self nor yet 
the whole world that wherewithal a life may be 
consoled for its losses ! " Suard deserves her con- 
fidence at all points. He pities and sustains her, 
and often argues with her, gently chiding the ex- 
cessive sensibility that '* upsets your works," the 
undue pessimism of which she seems rather proud. 
" I left you unwell, and I would fain believe you 
free of the excessive physical pain that weakens 
your character and aggravates other pains, danger- 
ously attractive to your imagination. You fear to 
find yourself well, and you reject the consolations 
and distractions of time and your own nature. . . . 
I know well enough how you will treat my remarks 
or my counsel, but I will not hide a very frequent 
thought of mine — you are falling into a habit of 
sad ideas and lamentable imaginings, and the con- 
sequences frighten me. Why will you not listen 
to the voices of nature and of friendship? . . . But 
what profits it to say — 'Be of good cheer!' Un- 
happiness means the mastery of motions stronger than 
reason, for reason points the way to cheerfulness. 
And all this talk just shows how much the thought 
of your happiness would contribute to my own." 
Doubtless the advice proved as barren as Suard 



I70 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

foresaw, but its kindness "touched her deeply," and 
his friendship was a stay. She tells him that the 
affection of so faithful a consoler gives her courage 
to make an effort in the face of trouble. Probably 
no passage in a letter to a friend contains so much 
emotion and tenderness as do these lines, penned 
no long time before her death : " What profits it, 
then, to love ? I love you with all my heart, but 
that will never advantage you. All that you will 
ever prove in me is the pleasure that a sensitive 
and honest soul like yours feels in alleviating the 
pangs of a suffering fellow-mortal, an unfortunate 
who would have fallen into the utter slough of 
discouragement but for the helping hand out- 
stretched by your kindness." 

These effusions are the fruit of real feeling. They 
are in no single word suspect of that banal and 
factitious sensibility or the literary emotionalism so 
common in this age. No further proof of this need 
be sought than Julie's tone in respect of others of 
her familiars, not less deserving or devoted perhaps 
than the two men of whom we have spoken, but 
without their passport to her real heart. The 
Chevalier de Chastellux was one of her earliest 
as he was among her most attentive friends, and 
always, in her own words, "entirely kind and 
attentive." But, despite these claims and qualities, 
her feelings towards him are never more than grate- 
ful ; on no occasion do they amount to sympathy. 
In a letter to Guibert she mentions his return from 
a long journey. " I shall be glad to see him, but 
if I could have added to his absence what I would 



CHEVALIER DE CHASTELLUX 171 

take from yours, many were the long days till we 
should meet again. Observe, I pray you, how I 
reverse the order of the days. 1 have loved the 
Chevalier for eight years ! " The author of La 
F^licitd Publique was, none the less, no guest to 
be despised, and the most critical sought his com- 
pany. Chancellor d'Aguessau was his grandfather 
on the mother's side, and he was commonly said to 
have been "dandled on the knees" of this redoubt- 
able ancestor, from whom he inherited his culture 
and precocious development. Having entered the 
Service at a tender age, De Chastellux was a colonel 
at twenty, and took part in most of the campaigns 
of the Seven Years' War. But, soldier of some 
name as he was, his heart inclined to literature, and 
his convictions to the Encyclopaedia. On this high- 
road to success, he travelled fast and far. Some 
scraps of prose in the Mercure, a treatise on "The 
Union of Poetry and Music," and finally a mighty 
tome on politics and philosophy, constituted a claim 
that needed no seconding to make the Chevalier a 
man of fashion first, next a man to be observed, and 
finally, in his fortieth year, an Academician. 

In some respects he deserved this rapid ad- 
vancement. Affable and " candid," upright and 
reliable, his real knowledge and quick intelligence, 
joined to a particular gift for repartees and pictur- 
esque expression, justified his name as the most 
charming of conversationalists. His sayings were 
current in club and boudoir alike, as when he said, 
speaking of Diderot's style: "These phrases seem 
as though drunk, and set on pursuing each other." 



172 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

A group of young women, discussing passion, are, 
he tells them, "like the idle readers of travellers' 
tales!" In more serious moments his views weire 
often original, while "streaks of illumination" often 
flashed across his talk like lightning through a bank 
of cloud. But the mania for unmeasured and inces- 
sant puns marred his undoubted wit, and his disser- 
tations too often suffered from obscurity of expression. 
" The wit and ideas of Monsieur de Chastellux," said 
Madame Necker, " are like the dim images which 
appear as though to one's eyes at the mention of 
any given name — a tree, mountain, or campanile." 

Julie was too sensible to count these slight 
blemishes for sin to the Chevalier, but her annoy- 
ance with them is apparent from the way in which 
she speaks of his visits. " The Chevalier de Chas- 
tellux has determined to turn my head. Yesterday 
evening he again devoted himself to me. I was at 
the point of death when he arrived, and a corpse I 
remained for so long as he was here." His pre- 
judices and fixed opinions, and the violence with 
which he was wont to lay down the law, on musical 
matters in particular, also offended her. His assault 
on her enthusiasms when he proclaims Gluck's 
masterpieces as "absurd and detestable," stirs 
her to mingled anger and pity at such obtuseness. 
"Why do I not discuss Orpheus with Monsieur 
de Chastellux ? Because it would be barbarous to 
discuss colours with the Fifteen Score." ^ What is 

^ Les Quinze Vingts = Fifteen Score = 300 inmates of a hospital, 
founded in Paris in 1254 or 1260 by Saint^^Louis, for " 300 blind men 
whose eyes the Saracens had bored out in the Holy Land.'' Since, 
a hospital for the needy poor. 



HE IRRITATES JULIE 173 

more serious, and prevents Chastellux from obtain- 
ing the affection surely due to his devotion, is that 
Julie suspects him of affectation and artificiality. 
He lacks sensibility also ; a defect which does not 
deny a kind heart, but disenables him, she says, 
from the capacity to understand the things of the 
soul and the joys of the heart. He is vain, and 
attaches too much importance to trifles "and the 
world's stupidities " ; he professes a needless ad- 
miration " for Court, the Princes, their rising, re- 
tiring, and vegetating!' Contact with him often fills 
her with a dumb irritation hardly to be contained. 
" For three-quarters of the whole time I cannot 
understand the Chevalier. He is so satisfied with 
what he has done, knows so well what he will do, 
and is so enamoured with reason ! In a word, he is 
so perfect at all points, that 1 have a hundred times 
felt myself utterly mistaken when I have been 
speaking or writing to him. It has been on my 
tongue to pronounce or write Chevalier Grandisson^ 
but that would imply no envy for Clementina or 
Miss Gleon.^ 

Such vexation, due to the intensely dissimilar 
natures of the couple, is, however, confined to out- 
breaks of this kind, discreet whispers in a friendly 
ear. Julie's conduct or attitude towards him never 
betray it, for if she is sometimes less than just she 
is never ungrateful. Chastellux's real qualities are 
clear to her, and, when occasion serves, she is 
zealous on his behalf His dearest hope was 

^ Miss Gleon. Doubtless Genevieve Savaleye, Marc^uise d§ 
Gl^on, an intimate friend of Chastellux. 



174 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

obtained, thanks to her initiative and persevering 
championship. " He's very pleased with me," she 
tells Guibert in October 1774. "I warmed up his 
friends, and things have gone so well that the next 
vacancy will see him safe in the Academy. This is 
no doubt his due, but it has not been arranged 
without an effort. The keenness, joy, and desire 
with which he has pursued this triumph communi- 
cate themselves to me. Fontenelle is right — 
every age has its toys." " How proven it is," is 
Guibert's sententious reply, " that the last quality 
required in a member of The Forty is soul. But 
since the Chevalier has wit, knowledge, even some 
erudition, and has also written a most worthy opus, 
I consider it an excellent action to have assured 
his succession to the first vacancy. This toy will 
give him transports. He thinks it already in his 
hands." The death of Chateaubrun did, indeed, 
realise this hope a few months later. Next to 
Suard, and before La Harpe, Chastellux was 
among those to whom Julie's influence assured 
the sweets of what she ironically christened " im- 
mortality for life." 

This review of the salon of Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse has hitherto noticed men alone. But 
the new salon was ruled under a far less severe dis- 
pensation than that long since adopted by Madame 
Geoffrin, and the circle round Julie was no more 
confined to members of the opposite sex than were 
her private friends men alone. Young or old, fair 
or plain, some claim to wit was all the passport 
needed by the many women who passed her doors. 



HER MISTRUST OF WOMEN 175 

In her relations with the majority of these — rare 
exceptions like Madame Geoffrin and the Marechale 
de Luxembourg always excepted — the hostess, one 
must however admit, exhibited less warmth than 
their masculine compeers. She does justice to 
their virtues, appreciates their attractions, and is 
sometimes stirred by their more tender attentions. 
But they do not possess her heart or receive her 
confidences. With them she is always clearly re- 
served and ready to doubt. A mere breath pro- 
vokes a feeling of disquiet, the instinctive retreat 
which easily degenerates into distrust and jealousy. 
Some secret instinct, often observable in women 
with the capacity for great love, fears the rival in 
every sister with whom she comes in contact, no 
matter how exiguous her charms ; an instinct that 
spoils all joy, and stands guard over every impulse 
towards intimacy. 

Julie's relations with that Countess de Boufflers 
whom Madame du Deffand nicknamed The Idol — 
" because she was worshipped in the Temple, the 
home of her lover, the Prince de Conti" — were 
of this kind. She was one of the most attractive 
women of the day, and is not to be confused with 
her two contemporaries, the Duchesse de Boufflers, 
afterwards Duchesse de Luxembourg, and the 
Marquise de Boufflers, the friend of King Stanis- 
las Leczinski. She was a charmingly pretty woman, 
with that frail beauty which is often called delicate, 
but lasts longer, and contemporaries record that, 
at almost forty, her complexion was as fresh as at 
twenty. Her quick tongue was really eloquent. 



176 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Often paradoxical, her conversation was always 
ingenious, original, and picturesque, and if her 
argument were sometimes daring, its expression was 
still so chaste and so loftily expressed that a hearer 
usually forgot the sad and frequent discrepancies 
between her words and her acts. She was honest, 
however, as witness her own saying: "I would 
render to virtue by my words what I wrest from 
her by my actions." No one thought the worse 
of her for this, which was merely in accord with 
the rule of the time. "What concern have we 
with the spring if its waters run clear ? " demanded 
the Due de Levis. "It would be just as reason- 
able to inquire whether the doctor who orders 
moderation has always practised it." More open 
to criticism were the somewhat subtle and calcu- 
lated qualities of Madame de Boufflers' wit, her 
trick of emphasising words to which she desired 
to draw attention, and the pause which claimed 
admiration at the critical moment of more brilliant 
sallies. " She is for ever preoccupied with effect, 
and you might say that she is eternally posing 
before a biograph," jeers Horace Walpole. 

Julie is aware of Madame de Boufflers' failings, 
and may well seem to insist too much upon them 
when we recall the latter's real claims upon her 
gratitude. Constant friend of Madame du Deffand 
as she was, Madame de Boufflers was one of the 
first to take the girl's part against the Marquise. 
She did not break off relations with the elder 
salon, but she was none the less one of the most 
frequent figures in Rue §aint Dominique. Her 



COUNTESS DE BOUFFLERS 177 

reward, one must feel, was small, for, while Madame 
du Deffand never forgave the defection, Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse was never rightly grateful. 
Yet Julie was not altogether insensible to Madame 
de Boufflers' friendship. " I'm truly pleased to find 
you here," she writes to her, when they have not 
met for some time. " I feel your absence on 
several accounts, taste, custom, and habit — the 
last the least, for habit is no more than our sub- 
stitute for feeling in matters of lesser moment. 
Farewell ! I'm extremely anxious to see you again, 
and you are mistaken if you imagine that I have 
been content with your absence." Julie, also, is 
not prone to shut her eyes to her friend's good 
qualities. " I have seen much of her during the 
past week, and she is truly amiable. She was 
quite charming at Madame Geoffrin's dinner on 
Wednesday. She never opened her mouth but we 
had a paradox, and her defence, when attacked, was 
so spirited that her unsoundness told as smartly 
as any truth." But irony follows fast on this 
eulogium. " She told us that even in the times 
when she liked England best, she would never 
have consented to fix her home in that country 
unless in company with at least twenty -four or 
twenty-five intimate friends, and sixty or eighty 
absolutely necessary other persons. This need of 
her soul was communicated to us with much serious- 
ness, and still more sensibility." Julie scratches to 
sharper effect in this passage : "While I lay awake, 
my thoughts turned to Countess de Boufflers, and 
I wondered how it happens that all her graces and 

M 



178 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

attractions still leave her so ineffective a figure. 
She really does not make much impression, and 
I think that I know why. Everything has its con- 
ventional truth. There is the truth of a picture, 
of a play, of a sentiment, and of conversation. 
Madame de BoufHers reaches this truth in nothing, 
and this explains how she passes through life with- 
out really touching or interesting even those people 
whom she has been the most anxious to please." 

Similar passages could be multiplied almost 
infinitely, and it is not very difficult to discover 
the cause of so much unkindness and sarcasm at 
the expense of a friend whose faithfulness was 
never open to question. Madame de Boufflers, 
forty-eight years old as she was, dared to fiirt 
with Guibert, and Guibert had not seemed in- 
sensible. This is the unpardonable crime to a 
passionate woman, and not for all her devoted 
affection might it be forgiven to the Countess. 

Julie was equally cold and angry with another 
celebrated friend, or if her displeasure is less acute 
in this quarter it is still less justifiable. The fame 
of Madame de Marchais has scarcely come down 
to us, and she is therefore the more deserving of 
a moment's attention. Her salon, according to 
Marmontel, " embraced all the most estimable per- 
sons of our day, and, in the domain of culture, all 
that is highest and most distinguished." The 
presiding spirit in this galaxy was a delicious little 
creature, four feet in height, but perfect in figure, 
and of ravishing proportions. Her features erred 
on the side of regularity, if at all. Her hair was 



MADAME DE MARCHAIS 179 

a marvel, and her eyes brimming over with fun. 
Her teeth "were much in evidence, but superb." 
She dressed eccentrically perhaps, with enormous 
bouquets on her head, and "all about her person 
more garlands of real flowers than are to be seen 
on the entire corps of the Opera." Madame de 
Marchais was, in short, a curious mixture of attrac- 
tion and the ridiculous, but that her intelligence was 
extraordinary no one ever questioned. Alert, lively, 
quick, and pointed, "one might say that her very 
silence was full of animation," and she was as 
profound as she was ready. " She could guess 
one's thought, and her replies were arrows which 
never missed their mark." Yet, with all this, her 
nature was of the sweetest, and singularly obliging 
to others. This "young fairy," as Marmontel calls 
her, did not lack for admiration ; but her heart 
owned a single master, Count d'Angiviller, Director- 
General of the Royal Buildings and Garden ; and 
when, after fifteen years of affection, the couple 
found themselves free, and promptly married, only 
to be mutually more dear than before, this pheno- 
menon obtained them the just admiration of all 
beholders. 

For such a woman to forsake her home and the 
attentions of the throng, which was almost a court, 
around her, to claim an almost daily place in the 
small salon in the joiner's house, was certainly a 
mark of friendship which Julie had to acknowledge, 
and everything seems to show that she appreciated 
it at its worth in the beginning. But it chanced 
that this pleasant lady was never tired of admira- 



i8o JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

tion. " She inspires a passion," sighs Walpole, 
"and has not the time to cure a quarter of the 
wounds that she inflicts." She was scarcely a flirt, 
and never touched gallantry ; but to awaken the 
tenderness which is content with looks, vague hints, 
and discreet sighs was always pleasant to her, and 
from the day when Guibert first noticed her, still 
more from that on which she became the confidential 
critic of his first essays in the drama, Madame de 
Marchais was irremediably banned from Julie's 
good graces. It is interesting to see how promptly 
the latter's jealousy assaults a disquieting friend- 
ship, and the cleverness with which she at once 
delivers her attack on the most susceptible spot — 
the vanity of a young author. " We always love 
our admirers," she writes to Guibert. "But you 
should certainly tell Monsieur d'Angeviller to bid 
Madame de Marchais hold her tongue when she 
asserts that the two first acts of The Constable 
are pure Machiavelism, that the Constable is a 
detestable, and Adelaide a ridiculous, part, &c. 
Good-night. I wish to hold the exclusive secret 
of your self-esteem. In return, I yield you that of 
my heart." This little manoeuvre was completely 
successful, for between Guibert and Madame de 
Marchais there was no further intellectual traffic. 
Their nascent sympathy was similarly suppressed. 
And if this astonishes any one, he is proved but 
little wise in knowledge of our humanity, and 
literary humanity in especial. 

To conclude this gallery of the friends of Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse, we may well outline the 



THE DUCHESSE DE CHATILLON i8i 

portrait of a woman toward whom her feelings 
chanofed in an inverse pfradation. Towards EmiHe 
Felicite, Duchesse de Chatillon, Julie was at first 
utterly indifferent, but presently felt the most tender 
affection. This lady did not, indeed, enjoy the 
dangerous gifts of dominating beauty or dazzling 
spirit. Goodness of heart and an almost ingenious 
sincerity were her chief, if not her sole, charms, and 
she was thus singularly unlike her mother, the delect- 
able Duchesse de la Valliere, the friend of Madame 
du Deffand, who was still notable for her beauty 
when she might well have been called old, and whose 
charms are celebrated in the famous quotation — 

" La Nature prudente et sage 
Force le temps a respecter 
Les charmes de ce beau visage, 
Qu'elle ne saurait repeter." 

The Duchesse de Chatillon was little more than 
a child when, in this famous mother's salon, she 
first met Julie de Lespinasse, and at once conceived 
for her one of those girlish passions that amount 
to little less than adoration. Julie's breach with 
Madame du Deffand a few years later made practical 
demonstration of her feelings possible, and the young 
Duchesse found no care or attention too much for 
her friend. N o devoted or loving sister could counsel 
or advise more devotedly. Her purse was ready at 
need, she missed no single opportunity for the 
finest and most delicate attentions, but the lapse 
of several years alone won her more reward than 
a rather chill and reserved gratitude. 

Julie was not intentionally thus backward. 



i82 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

She was simply incapable of constraining her 
affections. She was even vexed with herself for 
the failure, but a natural human weakness merely 
turned this vexation against the innocent cause of it. 
" She is kindness herself, but she makes me cross 
with myself. She thinks that she loves me, and the 
thought prompts her actions. She is kind and 
honest, but her head is as hollow as a pumpkin, 
and her soul is a very desert. She is often in my 
way, and robs me of my own thoughts. Can I fill 
her head or people her desert ? " 

But Julie's rebel spirit was to suffer change. 
Suffering, the grand instructress, brought her to a 
more just appreciation of such faithful loving-kind- 
ness. The sweet consolation of an ever-ready love 
triumphed in days of sorrow and utter discourage- 
ment, and Julie welcomed an affection as delicate 
as it was ardent. " I should think poorly of myself 
indeed," she then writes, " if I did not love a person 
who gives so much and asks so little. If only you 
could see her, or hear the things she says to me. 
Such affection is own cousin to real love." Once 
the ice was broken, one might say that these two 
souls recognised their own passionate complements, 
and that they flew together. Julie, suffering in her 
turn from Guibert's cold response to her flame, cites 
the Duchesse as an example of true compatibility. 
" I begin to believe that the first of all the qualities 
which attract love is this capacity of giving love. 
You need not argue, for no imagination can con- 
ceive the thousand ways she finds by which to reach 
my heart. Friend ... If you loved me so ! . . . But, 



HER FRIENDSHIP FOR JULIE 183 

no ! I would not have it thus. Heaven keep me 
from twice knowing the joy of it ! " This is no 
chance passage. Page upon page, in these days, 
express Julie's new feelings for an incomparable 
friend. They need not weary the reader's eyes, for 
those already quoted sound a key that needs no 
reiteration to convince us of the reality of a tie that, 
in the writer's own words, "is the charm and grand 
benefit " of her declining days. 



CHAPTER VII 

The foreign colony in Paris in the eighteenth century — Success of Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse with these birds of passage — David Hume — Incredible 
public infatuation for this man — He haunts Julie's salon — She intervenes 
in the quarrel between Hume and J. J. Rousseau — She presides at the 
conference which dictates Hume's line of conduct — Consequent dissen- 
sions in the Encyclopaedist camp — Epistolary war between d'Alembert, 
Rousseau, Walpole, Voltaire, and others — Generous conduct of Hume 
: — Other foreign friends of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse : the Marquis 
Carracioli, Abbe Galiani, Lord Shelburne — Intimacy of Julie with the 
latter — She professes admiration for his statesmanship. 

Europe's discovery of Paris, and the discovery of 
Europe by Paris, are two statements of a fact the 
occurrence of which in the middle of the eighteenth 
century was of some importance, and had far-reach- 
ing effects. The close of the sixteenth century 
doubtless saw a certain foreign influx into Paris 
consequent upon the two Medicean marriages of the 
French throne, but this infiltration of alien elements 
was highly restricted, and really affected no more 
than the actual Court. French society under Louis 
XIV. remained almost purely indigenous, thanks 
partly to the country's continual struggles with 
three-quarters of the Powers, in part to the rooted 
French conceit that the realms of the Roi Soleil 
were, in the midst of Europe, as a land of light in 
the heart of a barbarian, very chaos. This lofty 
isolation outlasted its chief author's reign by some 
years, but in about the year 1750 the Peace of Aix- 
la-Chapelle seems to sound a silent summons, and 



FASHIONABLE FOREIGNERS 185 

Paris is forthwith a centre towards which streams 
an alien horde — Russians, Austrians, Poles, Danes, 
and Hungarians. Even more numerous than the 
visitors from all these nations was the English flood 
which burst upon Parisian society. These English 
were, for the most part, men of cultivation and 
breeding, used to the French social code and speak- 
ing the language fluently. Their consequent cordial 
and sympathetic reception led to renewed visits. 
The " Paris habit" was contracted. Some came to 
reside in the city : the city pleased all alike. 

We cannot here study the influence of this 
peaceful invasion upon French manners or ideas, 
but something of it is clearly visible in the new tone 
exhaled by, one might almost say the rejuvenes- 
cence of, the salons and literary circles of France. 
Men and women alike, the Parisians exhibited keen 
interest in the mental habits, the point of view, the 
judgments, and the feelings of the distinguished 
guests who so enlarged the horizon of their vision. 
No supper, evening or social gathering was pre- 
sently complete unless it were graced by some of 
these fashionable strangers. They were sought out 
and entertained as well as men may be. Madame 
Geoffrin set the fashion, and her home was for forty 
years as it were the central meeting-ground of 
Europe. Other hostesses followed more or less 
closely in her train, and Mademoiselle de Lespin- 
asse was not the one to be last on such a road. 
Julie's supple and catholic intellect, and her know- 
ledge of the languages and literature of England, 
Italy, and Spain, predestined her for the special 



i86 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

appreciation of foreign visitors, and one might 
indeed fill many pages with a mere list of those 
who thronged her apartment at various times. Some 
idea of her success in this intercourse can, however, 
be formed from a brief survey of such of them as 
really became her friends and left some mark upon 
her history. 

The first of these, by date no less than from his 
own importance, was Hume, the famous Scotch 
philosopher, whose position as Secretary of Embassy 
caused him to reside in Paris from 1763 to 1766. 
His social success was tremendous. " Those who 
have never known the strange effects of fashion, 
can hardly picture my reception, by men and 
women, in all classes and by all ranks. The more 
I attempted to escape their excessive politeness, the 
more their attentions overwhelmed me." This is 
Hume's own testimony, but it might conceivably be 
more true to say that he made no undue attempts 
at escape, and surrendered at an early date. Anglo- 
mania was then at its height — a fact clearly to be 
seen, says Horace Walpole, by the triple rage of the 
public for "Clarissa Harlowe," whist, and Hume. 
It was impossible to attend Court, the Opera, a 
ball, or the Comedy, without seeing the big head of 
Lord Hertford's^ improvised diplomatist "framed 
in two pretty faces." Champfort, asked for news 
of the "lion," replied, "I think he must be dead, 

^ Lord Hertford brought the historian to Paris as his secretary. 
Hume, however, was not officially " Secretary " except between the 
summer of 1765, when he became " Chargd d' Affaires," and the winter 
of the same year, when the Duke of Richmond was appointed to the 
post. 



HUME 187 

for I have only seen him three times to-day." Lord 
Marshall asserts that " a lady is in disgrace at 
Court for having asked who he is. . . . She must 
be some provincial, just arrived in Paris." " Hume," 
adds the same witness, "might apply the historic 
phrase to himself, and say, 'Not to know me is to 
confess yourself unknown ! ' " 

The candid vanity of the historian's letters to 
Robertson proves that he was scarcely averse from 
this notoriety. " My food here is ambrosia ; I 
breathe incense and tread flowers. Indeed, I never 
meet a person, a woman in particular, whose con- 
science would not accuse them of a serious lapse if 
the occasion should pass without a long and pom- 
pous compliment to myself." He is ingenuously 
pleased by a visit to Versailles, when the Dauphin's 
sons, the eldest scarcely eight years old, ran up 
and delivered a torrent of hyperbolical praise. The 
youngest, a child of five, forced himself to lisp 
"while all around applauded, a compliment got by 
heart and imperfectly remembered." One scarcely 
wonders if, after this, Hume proclaims Paris the 
most polite and enlightened city in creation, or 
considered, as he records, " whether I might not 
establish myself here for the remainder of my life." 

The English, it is fair to confess, exhibited some 
astonishment at all his enthusiasm, and more than 
one compatriot smiled in his sleeve at adulation 
sufficient to turn the most solid and well-balanced 
brain. Hume's intimate friend, Lord Marshall, 
warns him against this danger. " I hope," he 
writes, "that these ladies fair and grand will not 



i88 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

spoil you so much that we shall get back a dandy, 
a dapper man at the embroidering. A flirt taught 
Hercules himself to spin ! " Walpole's pen is dipped 
in keener gall. " Mr. Hume is the one thing created 
wherein the French have real faith. They are wise 
in this, for I defy living man to understand a word 
of his, be the language English or what you will. 
. . . Mr. Hume is fashion in the flesh, though his 
French be about as intelligible as his English." 
These unkind reflections enshrine a partial truth. 
Hume's outer man was far from brilliant. He 
spoke haltingly, heavily, and with embarrassment. 
He was coarsely, clumsily built, and his features 
were neither refined nor distinguished. His moral 
qualities were, however, on a very different plane. 
Of a lofty spirit, and gifted with a profound intellect, 
his judgments were sound, and his conversation and 
writings both bear witness to that capacity for real 
observation which joined in happy alliance the vision 
of the historian and the broad perceptions of the 
philosopher. He was no less correctly praised for 
his upright heart, a character at once strong and 
gentle, constancy in friendship and reliability in all 
intercourse. Adam Smith, one of his best friends, 
asserts that his habitual jests were simply the effer- 
vescence of a natural kindliness, and a gaiety tem- 
pered by delicacy and modesty. He was never 
unkind, even in the slightest degree . . . never let 
fall a jest intended to wound. His humour amused 
even those against whom it was directed." Every- 
thing in him, say others, testified to his honesty 
and loyalty. In the exemplary purity of his life 



HIS FRIENDSHIP FOR JULIE 189 

might have been read the presage of his serene 
death, worthy a sage of old Greece — a moment of 
which this is related. Being at the very point of 
dissolution, certain friends would have had Hume 
hope that he might still recover. His answer was 
this: "No! no ! I go as fast as any enemy, if I 
have one, can wish, and as easily as my best friend 
may desire." Parisian opinion was perhaps more 
acute than that of London, and, moving at the 
instance of some vague feeling of his real superiority, 
have been as really justified in fact, as in expression 
it was frivolous and out of all proportion. 

Julie de Lespinasse shared the contagion of 
the hour. She had met Hume in the salon of Saint 
Joseph's, where he made his first entry almost on 
the moment of reaching the city. " I pride myself," 
Madame du Deffand was afterwards to write, "on 
having been the first to pay him attention. This 
is the single ground on which I may claim to be 
deserving. . . . The charms and pleasures offered 
elsewhere have borne him away and relegated me 
to the rank of a mere acquaintance. You know if 
I am vexed, if I did not appreciate all his merits, 
am not touched by them, or would not gladly have 
been called a friend of his." The application of this 
" elsewhere " is plain. Madame de la Ferte Imbault 
says that Hume fell headlong into "the magician's 
power," solicited and was accorded the entry in 
Rue Saint Dominique, and seldom stirred "from 
that little chapel." Here he both met with the 
most flattering reception, and was not backward in 
testifying to his appreciation of it. But he was 



I90 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

shortly given to understand that his priestess and 
her satellites would brook no divided allegiance. 
No backsliding towards the neighbouring shrine 
could be tolerated, and every relapse evoked a 
smart call to order. "Yes, sir! " writes Julie, after 
one such act of misconduct, " I was one of the first 
to recognise your work. I am proud of it, and I 
sincerely desired to be your friend. I have flattered 
myself that we were friends, and I learn that this 
is not so with the deepest regret. . . . Whether or 
no custom licenses or tolerates the alliance of a 
friend with an enemy, I cannot tell. I do know 
the demands of friendship. More I should be sorry 
to know." 

That Hume knew how to sue for pardon is 
plainly to be read between the lines of the coquet- 
tish note which soon afterwards sealed a reconcilia- 
tion. " The source of your sighs, the charming 
Neole (?), commands you in her infant treble to sup 
with me on the nth of this month, I think that 
you will not dare to refuse, and so I leave to that 
day the expression of all my good and my bad 
thoughts of you. Ah ! how long it is from now 
until then ! " Or, do we need more proof, can any- 
thing be clearer than this plaint of Madame du 
Deffand, the abandoned, to her friend Horace Wal- 
pole? "I am truly pleased to think that you are 
unlikely to see him (Hume) again, and that I never 
shall. What has he done to me? He displeases 
me. Shall I, hater of idols, not detest their priests 
and worshippers ? " 

Hume's supersession at the Embassy by the 



HIS DEPARTURE FROM PARIS 191 

Duke of Richmond in the summer of 1766, and his 
consequent return across the Channel, might sunder, 
but in no way obscured, his friendships in Paris. 
Part of his correspondence with JuHe has come 
down to us, and clearly proves her constant thought 
of him and her real grief at his departure. " I did 
promise not to write to you, but I feel that in this 
I promised more than I can observe, and I cannot 
resist the desire which is upon me. . . . Madame 
de Boufflers gives me hopes of your early return. 
I would that the moment could be hastened, and 
that I might then possess you without fear of a 
second loss." This occurs in the first letter of the 
series. Only a few months later Julie writes again. 
" You say nothing about your return. Is England, 
then, like Hell — a bourne whence none return ? " 
A year later still sees the same eagerness : " I am 
such an individualist, and yearn so for another sight 
of you, that all my heart prays for your eternal dis- 
grace." Such language might be open to the sus- 
picion of mere hyperbole did not still later letters 
show Julie in the part of her absent friend's hot 
champion. Her action then, in delicate circum- 
stances, proves the reality of her feeling better than 
any words could do. There's no need to enter 
into all the details of Hume's famous quarrel with 
Jean Jacques Rousseau, for the story is already only 
too well known. But Julie's share in the incident has 
been somewhat obscured, and a word on the subject 
will not be out of place. 

At the time at which we have now arrived, 
Rousseau was passing through the most critical 



192 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

period of his career. Severely handled by the 
Parliament of Paris, and condemned to personal 
detention on account of his latest works, Entile 
and The Social Contract, and similarly condemned, 
a short while after, by the Council of Geneva, which 
also burned his books by the hand of the common 
executioner — Rousseau was an outcast, wandering 
from town to town, and country to country, under 
various names and disguises, and not knowing 
where he might dare to seek refuge. Countess de 
Boufflers, his special patroness, now obtained him a 
safe-conduct under which he was able to return to 
Paris for the few weeks which she hoped would 
suffice for her to secure his pardon. He was 
lodged in the Temple by Prince de Conti, a man 
whom Hume was accustomed to visit. The couple, 
thus met, conceived the closest friendship — so close 
that Hume carried Rousseau back to England 
when he returned thither in 1766; obtained him 
the hospitality of his Derbyshire friend, Davenport, 
overwhelmed him with benefits, and finally left no 
stone unturned, even to the exhaustion of his per- 
sonal credit, in a vain attempt to obtain a pension 
for him from the King. So moving a spectacle 
naturally had its effect on Encyclopaedist circles in 
France. Every eye was moist, says Garat, at the 
thought of the English historian "bearing Jean 
Jacques in his arms" into the heart of that happy 
isle wherein, it was whispered, the essential pre- 
cepts of The Social Contract were observed in fact. 
Hearts grew hot at the thought of this audacious 
innovator, this " savage," this " republican," finding 



J. J. ROUSSEAU 193 

support from royal hands and pensions on the steps 
of a throne. "Hume and Jean Jacques could not 
longer be thought of in any other position than in 
each other's arms, bathed in tears of joy and mutual 
gratitude." 

One need scarcely say that Julie's imagination 
did justice to the vision. Her passionate admira- 
tion for the genius displayed in Rousseau's work 
transferred itself to the man, when she met him 
once or twice during his brief sojourn in Paris, and 
not d'Alembert's caution nor Madame Geoffrin's 
good advice could moderate her fervour. Her first 
letter to Hume, after his departure, contains a 
curious proof of this. The Dauphin had just died, 
freely mourned as is every Prince who has not 
reigned. The Encyclopaedia, in especial, lamented 
this untimely death as the end of all its hopes, al- 
though it is not easy to understand exactly why this 
should have been so. Moved by this illusory idea, 
Julie suggested an extraordinary scheme. Rousseau 
was to write a panegyric on the dead man; the heart 
of Louis XV. was to melt at this effusion, and the 
philosopher should thus be received back into grace. 
" I wish Monsieur le Dauphin to be praised as he 
deserved," she explains to Hume, "and I know no 
man in all France who is as able for this task as is 
Monsieur Rousseau. He, and only he, can instil 
into such an elegy the warmth and interest which 
will move sensitive minds, and of which our orators, 
our poets, and our philosophers, are incapable. 
Monsieur Rousseau may, perhaps, forget the fact, 
but he has especial reason to cherish the memory of 

N 



194 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Monsieur le Dauphin, for it is known that only a few 
days before his demise this prince expressed great 
interest in Monsieur Rousseau, and his desire to 
dissociate himself entirely from the persecutions to 
which he has been subjected." So set was Julie 
upon her idea, that she even enclosed with her 
letter a species of draft, personally composed with 
the aid of d'Alembert, " to serve Rousseau as a 
nucleus for the fine things that he is going to say."^ 
Hume is strictly enjoined to "warm" his friend to 
this task, and Julie concludes thus: "I consider 
that this elegy will facilitate Monsieur Rousseau's 
return to France, and his restoration to his friends 
and the nation which mourns his absence." 

The composition of an elegy in honour of the 
most " churchy " prince of his day naturally did not 
appeal to the author of The Social Contract, and 
the project was still-born. Its failure seems to have 
in no way diminished the mutual good feelings of 
the trio, and relations were continued upon the old 
footing. In the following May, Julie received from 
London a copy of "the admirable portrait" which 
Hume had, at his own expense, commissioned from 
the engraver Ramsay. The three-sided honeymoon 
continued, and the public was even more impressed 
than before when, at one of Madame Necker's 
evening parties, d'Holbach read a letter from 
Hume which he had received on the previous 
evening. " My dear Baron, Jean Jacques is a 
rascal." The company was duly moved at this 

^ A transcript of this curious document will be found at the end of 
this chapter. See page 211. 



HE QUARRELS WITH HUME 195 

pretty opening, and the sequel did not belie its 
suggest! veness. A letter from Rousseau to Hume 
followed : " You are a traitor, and brought me here 
only to ruin and dishonour me. . . ." " These two 
words, traitor and rascal,'' says a witness of the 
scene, "exploded in our party, and in a section of 
the capital that same night, like any two cannon- 
shots." 

Violent as was its first surprise at this scene, the 
resultant disturbance in the philosophic world was 
little less acute. No one knew anything, but imagi- 
nation was not to be gainsaid, and two angry camps 
were soon pitched the one against the other. 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's letter to Hume, 
written on the morning after the theatrical scene, 
gives some idea of this electrical atmosphere. 
" Good God, sir ! but what has come to Rousseau 
and you ? What exact deed of darkness has he 
committed against you ? — for after your letter to the 
Baron there's nothing which one may not fear. . . . 
If I did not hesitate to seem importunate, I would 
ask for immediate details of your sufferings, not out 
of curiosity, for your word is enough for me, but — 
the simple truth ! — in your own interest, so that I 
may have the means of defending you against these 
fanatical Rousseauites." 

The eagerly awaited post arrived, but the news 
in it was not such as soothes excitement. In place of 
facts, denunciations and complaints were piled upon 
each other. D'Alembert did not exaggerate in the 
least when he wrote to Voltaire: "You would 
laugh to hear the reasons which justified Rousseau 



196 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

in first suspecting, and next accusing, Monsieur Hume 
of a league with his enemies. Hume talked against 
him in his sleep. In London he lodged in the same 
house as Tronchin's ^ son. He had his eye upon him. 
And, last and most, he could not have been so kind 
to Rousseau without ulterior designs." The truth 
lay in these last words, as Rousseau himself testified 
a few years later, in his cynical and astonishing 
avowal to Madame d'Epinay : " Know once for 
all, Madame, that I am vicious and was so born, and 
that it is impossible for you to imagine how hard it 
is for me to act rightly, or how easily I do wrong. 
. . . You smile ? To show you how entirely truth- 
ful I am, know that it is simply impossible for me 
not to hate a benefactor." Jean Jacques' annoyance 
was also partly due to the feeling that he was a 
complete failure in England. D'Alembert plainly 
says as much in this letter to Hume : ** You have 
probably not given its due attention to a queer 
phrase in the letter of \\i\^ pretty little fellow^ as you 
once used to call him : that the 'public^ at first much 
interested in him, soon began to neglect him' This 
is the real offence, and he visits it upon whomsoever 
he may. You undertook to exhibit the bear at a 
fairing. His booth, at first so popular, was presently 
unvisited, and the bear visits this neglect upon 
you. 

Such were no doubt the inward reasons, to-day 
they would be called the psychological reasons, for 
the strange conduct of Jean Jacques ; but foolish as 
he was, his secret irritation would probably not have 

^ Tronchin was a mortal enemy of Rousseau. 



CAUSE OF THE QUARREL 197 

exploded with such violence but for an incident 
which disturbed his balance and rendered him 
scarcely responsible. That pitiless jester, Horace 
Walpole, being in Paris about this time, took it 
into his head to forge a letter, purporting to be 
from the hand of Frederick the Great, and ad- 
dressed to Rousseau. Half serious in form, this 
missive overflowed with malicious and excessively 
mordant irony. Under the plea that he wished to 
show some consideration to Hume as an ally of 
Jean Jacques, the forger first confined the circula- 
tion of his work within a few Parisian salons. But 
the general desire to see this letter in Rousseau's 
hands soon induced him to forward it, and the 
victim was so effectually deluded that there was 
afterwards found among his papers a long and em- 
phatic protest addressed to the King of Prussia, 
and complaining of what he calls "this cruel insult 
to misfortune." His fury and fierce thirst for ven- 
geance, when he learned the truth, may be imagined. 
An unfortunate impulse of his mad brain fastened 
the guilt of it on that most improbable person 
d'Alembert. Hume, he imagined, was d' Alembert's 
accomplice. The honest and ingenuous historian, 
called to meet this astonishing charge, was first 
utterly confounded and then as wrathfully indignant. 
Hume would have been better advised, however 
just his anger, to disdain the maunderings of Rous- 
seau and pass over so absurd a scene. Madame de 
Boufflers formally told him so, and it was also the 
first counsel of Julie and of d'Alembert, who stated it 
plainly in this joint letter : " Do think twice before 



198 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

exhibiting your wrongs to the public eye, for quar- 
rels of this kind often have no effect except to 
further excite an obstinate fanatic, while those who 
are indifferent use them to revile the literary world 
in general." D'Alembert wrote again, a few days 
later : " My advice to you is — Publish no single 
word against Rousseau, but wait for his attack. . . . 
Let him show himself the utter fool that he is, and 
worthy of Bedlam, and we need fear nothing. His 
one desire is to be notorious at all costs. Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse thinks with me, and so do 
all with whom I have been able to discuss the 
subject." This good advice is only open to one 
criticism. It arrived too late. Hume's letter 
to d'Holbach, repeated and discussed in every 
Parisian set, produced an effect never dreamed of 
by its writer. ** If the King of England had de- 
clared war on the King of France," he declares in 
his surprise, " conversation could not have seized 
upon it more universally." Jean Jacques' friends 
defended him by spreading reports as false as they 
were unkind, and many who knew nothing of the 
facts never hesitated to accept these perfidious 
statements. Thus the scandal grew until it seemed 
impossible to remain silent, and, on Hume's special 
request, a solemn conclave assembled in the salon 
of Rue Saint Dominique, after dinner on the 24th 
of July. 

Turgot, Morellet, Marmontel, Saurin, Duclos, 
and d'Alembert thus met to deliberate under Julie's 
presidency. The debate, long and serious, as com- 
ported with the gravity of the occasion, ended at 



JULIE MEDIATES 199 

last in a formal and unanimous resolution which 
d'Alembert was deputed to communicate to Hume 
forthwith. " We unanimously resolve that the 
whole story must be made public at once. I write we^ 
for I speak in the name of us all." This preamble 
is followed by a plan of campaign — a detailed mem- 
orandum on the style in which the facts should be 
presented, and the tone to be adopted. " Every- 
thing" is to be set out "simply and directly, but 
without temper or the least acrimony. There must 
be no reflections upon Rousseau, or even upon his 
writings. ... I am ready to repeat every word of 
this before Rousseau. I am not aware that I have 
any cause to complain of him or to praise him, but 
since you ask my advice, my friendship for you 
requires that I should bluntly tell you what I would 
myself do, were I in your present position." The 
letter concludes with these lines, dictated by Julie 
herself: "Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, to whom 
I have read the whole of your letter and of my 
reply, charges me to tell you how truly she loves 
you, and how she is assured that you must at once 
state your case in print." 

Hume obeyed. Suard translating, and d'Alem- 
bert and Julie de Lespinasse acting publishers and 
distributors, a fat pamphlet, crammed with chapter 
and verse, called upon the public to judge a purely 
personal difference. The natural consequences 
were those which any one might have foreseen in 
such a case. Statement was opposed by statement, 
and envenomed, drawn out, and enlarged in scope, 
the quarrel soon set by the ears all the high priests 



200 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

of the new propaganda. The plan of this biography 
does not allow its pages to be filled with these sorry- 
details, but their effect upon its chief characters 
needs passing attention. And the spectacle that 
it offers is as instructive as the cause was puerile, 
for it needs only just such a folly to lay bare that secret 
mine of prides, jealousies, rancours, and petty spites, 
from which life sadly proves that neither the greatest 
mind nor the most philosophical soul is exempt. 

Walpole's forged letter was the cause of the 
second quarrel, now superimposed upon its fore- 
runner. D'Alembert was extremely annoyed by 
hearing that Rousseau believed him to have written 
it. "Gracious Heaven! my dear Jean Jacques," 
he cried ironically, "but is not this just a trifle too 
much ! However a man may desire to respect your 
position and to abstain from sneering at you, he 
really must smile. I am the author of, at least a 
party to, Walpole's letter ! You could not be more 
sure of this if you had seen the pen in my hand ! 
And Hume and I have plotted your destruction! 
So much has at least never been a secret to me. I 
congratulate you on your excellent optician ! " His 
letter to Voltaire breathes the like spirit. "Rous- 
seau pretends that I am the author of the letter under 
the King of Prussia's name, which makes a mock 
of him. You will know that this letter is the work 
of a certain Monsieur Walpole, a complete stranger 
to me, and to whom I have never spoken. Jean 
Jacques is a wild beast, who should be viewed only 
through bars, and never touched except with the 
end of a pole." 



WRATH OF D'ALEMBERT 201 

Leaving Rousseau, d'Alembert's wrath was 
turned against Walpole, to whom he owes this 
absurd " pother." " There's a certain cruelty," he 
writes to Hume, "in tormenting an unfortunate 
who has never harmed you. . . . Rousseau is obvi- 
ously a quack, but one can abstain from his drugs 
without stoning him. Monsieur Walpole must be 
eternally reproached with having made this poor 
creature lose his head, and with having outrageously 
compromised you — and me, even though I do not 
care a snap about the matter. I shall eternally 
laugh at quacks like Rousseau, and the cowards, 
like Monsieur Walpole, who dare not attack them 
openly." Finally, as was his habit, he finds, quite 
unjustly, that Madame du Deffand is the source of 
all the mischief, and denounces her to Hume as 
Walpole's inspiration. '* The whisper here is that 
Madame du Deffand undoubtedly inspired this sorry 
trick. She is said to have revised the letter and 
furbished up the style. ..." Hume is less certain 
of this, and d'Alembert, growing violent, commits 
the supreme indiscretion of dragging in the name 
of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. "In respect of my 
neighbour, The Scorpion (for so I call her), I repeat 
that she is a jade who fawns on you to-day, never for 
friendship's sake, but solely out of hatred for Rous- 
seau. You are the dupe of her shallow duplicity, 
but you may believe that she hates you because, in 
the first place, she hates all the world, and men of 
worth in particular, and next because she knows that 
you are the friend of those whom she holds in par- 
ticular abomination — not but that these repay her 



202 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

in kind, or rather return her hatred with the scorn 
which is its due. She is fortunate in having to deal 
with so honest a person as Mademoiselle de Lespin- 
asse, a woman who permits neither herself nor her 
friends in any way to reciprocate the naughtiness of 
this woman, but, this forbearance notwithstanding, 
perpetually seeks her \v^v\. per fas aut nefas. Yet 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse alone saves this crea- 
ture from a torrent of rhymes and epigrams which 
would make her as ridiculous as she is odious. Let 
us leave such refuse and return to Rousseau, even 
though he be of just the same kidney. . . ." 

An affair of this kind always induces the last 
imprudence, and Hume was indiscreet enough to 
show this letter to Walpole. The latter was never 
the man to suffer an attack in patience, but his first 
attitude on this occasion was, none the less, one of 
disdainful aloofness. " I despise Rousseau utterly, 
and am perfectly indifferent to the opinion of Parisian 
litterateurs on the present subject." But his temper 
soon rose to sharp retort. " I really cannot ima- 
gine why I may not attack Rousseau, if he may 
attack every government and religion. D'Alembert 
may be annoyed at having my letter attributed to 
him. He is within his rights. Personally, I should 
be more than annoyed were his 'Elegies ' and trans- 
lations from Tacitus to be laid at my door. I am, 
however, prepared to pardon him anything, if he 
will only refrain from translating me." After this 
personal defence, he takes up his pen on behalf of 
Madame du Deffand. " This carrying one's hate 
of a blind old woman to the point of hating her 



SELF-RESTRAINT OF HUME 203 

friends without reason, is a sad and miserable thing. 
D'Alembert's conduct has no justification. Madame 
du Deffand has no cause to love him, and I have 
only heard her name him three times, but never once 
did she utter a word against him. I remember that 
on the first of these occasions I mentioned that I 
had heard him called a good mimic, but could not 
call him a good writer. She replied, with much 
heat, that he was very good company indeed." 

Aggressions of this kind continued, to the ex- 
treme joy of the gallery in general, and not least to 
that of Voltaire. "Is not this," he cries gaily, "some- 
thing nearly as ridiculous as Jean Jacques himself? 
I find myself as deep in it as a man eating a supper 
to which he was not bidden. Our pretty coward 
complains that I have written a letter in which I 
ridicule him. Before heaven, I do ridicule him." 

Justifiable as were laughter, sarcasm, and tu 
quoques, the better conduct was still that adopted 
by the two friends whose souls were above its 
meanness, so soon as the first outburst blew over. 
After one angry explosion, Hume promptly re- 
covered his self-control — witness the eloquent and 
entirely spontaneous appeal which, only the next 
year, asked sympathy of his friends for the ungrate- 
ful Rousseau, and besought Turgot's influence on 
his behalf This plea he seconded by every pos- 
sible means, and if its ultimate success gained little 
gratitude from Jean Jacques, the worthy Scotchman 
at least won Julie's hearty approbation. " I have 
seen," she writes, "the letter which you wrote to 
Monsieur Turp^ot on behalf of that unfortunate 



204 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Rousseau. I could indeed recognise your true and 
humane goodness in its lines, and this last proof of 
those qualities overpasses all that has gone before. 
To me Rousseau seems proven imbecile, beyond a 
doubt, and this explanation makes it impossible to 
continue our surprise at his treatment of you." 
This epilogue to a mean tale may cover all that 
precedes it, and the biographical pen gladly closes 
with these generous words the history of an alliance 
originally no more than a daily social intimacy, but 
in the issue destined to prove an exemplar of noblest 
friendship. 

From the sage, virtuous, and phlegmatic Scotch- 
man Hume, to the light, noisy, braggart, and de- 
monstrative Neapolitan Caraccioli, is a far cry. 
Both were intimates of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
in almost equal degree, but under this common 
appearance it is easy to perceive that each obtained 
from her something in especial, the counterpart to 
his own qualities. Hume gains her heart while his 
rival amuses her brain, and this difference finds ex- 
pression in the terms of her farewell to the latter on 
the eve of his transfer from the Neapolitan Em- 
bassy at Paris, so long his home, to the Viceregal 
palace in Sicily — "a fair land," as he sighs, "but 
worthless as beside Place Vendome." ** The am- 
bassador leaves this week," Julie writes to Con- 
dorcet, "and I shall miss him greatly. But his 
departure will be a lesson in the infinite difference 
between the pleasures which pass and those that 
interest or are felt. This will be no more than a 
negative privation." These lines are not to be 



CARACCIOLI 205 

called warm, yet the Sicilian diplomat was a curious 
and really sympathetic figure — a man heavy in 
body and quick of brain, scholar and buffoon, now 
a facetious babbler, and next moment acutely ori- 
ginal. He had made for himself a language half 
French and half Italian, always picturesque and 
peculiarly full of colour, and there was never a room 
but his fluent tongue, exuberant gestures, and re- 
sounding laugh were perfectly able to hold the 
entire company. " He had the wit of four men," 
says a contemporary, "gesticulated for eight, and 
made the noise of twenty." 

Caraccioli's success at Paris was immediate, alike 
in society and in the salons. " You cannot imagine 
how fashionable he is here — a second edition of 
Monsieur Hume!" says Madame du Deffand, and 
she immediately adds, " I don't hear the three- 
quarters of what he is saying, but the loss can pass, 
for he says a great deal." Apart from occasional 
remarks of this kind, Madame du Deffand was at 
first considerably pleased with the ambassador. 
" This person is something talkative," she tells 
Walpole, " but he is good-natured, direct, and 
honest." ..." I may confess," runs another pas- 
sage, "that I find Caraccioli a sufficiently pleasant 
person. He is straight, kindly, and of a lofty 
nature. While wise, he is also a buffoon ; a man of 
reason and character, and a comical fellow who can 
talk nonsense by the yard. He is, in fact, a mix- 
ture of all possible ingredients — except only bad 
ingredients." But this honey of Madame du 
Deffand is suddenly turned acid. "Your Carac- 



2o6 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

cioli calls all the time, but my taste for his com- 
pany does not improve. He has plenty to say, but 
there is no fruit for all the leaves. . . . There is no 
reason to object to him as an acquaintance, a person 
to meet or even to have in one's own house, but he's 
tiresome and a bore — a calfs brain in a monkey's 
head." Her sarcasm is not discomfited by the 
victim's illness : " I believe that he must shortly 
die. He's as full as an egg, and coughs like a fox — 
Do foxes cough ? " The change, of course, has its 
explanation, and this Madame du Deffand provides 
in the single line of postscript : "His venerations 
are d'Alembert and the Lespinasse." 

Julie's reservations in her judgment of the am- 
bassador, noted above, must not be read as meaning 
that she was insensible to his admiration, or was 
not, at least, sensible of the value of her conquest. 
Her flattering sketch of him proves the exact con- 
trary. " You will not easily find a more complete 
personality, by which I mean that the ambassador 
unites in his person all sorts of qualities, and all 
good in their kind. . . . His perceptions are fine, 
definite, and very just ; his infectious gaiety com- 
municates itself to all the company ; he is a facile 
talker, and so amiable and kind that there is no 
need to inquire whether he has sensibility." This 
final phrase, let fall as it were by chance, is a reve- 
lation of the real Julie. "Hot-headed and impul- 
sive, always thirsting for tenderness, any suspicion 
that another lacks feeling or is careless, robs her of 
her ease and chills her before she is well aware of 
it. Her secret heart nurtured such a suspicion 



ABB6 GALIANI 207 

about Caraccioli, as it appears, until he left Paris, 
when proof by absence, that touchstone of the 
affections, revealed the ultimate seriousness behind 
the frivolous husk of his daily self. " He misses 
us from the bottom of his heart," she then writes, 
a trifle surprised. " His letter is quite sad, and 
overflows with friendliness. Tell the Duchesse 
d'Amville that our estimable ambassador hid larger 
sensibilities than he wished to own to." 

Among the numerous foreigners who were con- 
stant visitors in Rue Saint Dominique, many left 
their mark upon the social or political history of the 
time. Count d'Aranda, Count de Creutz, and Baron 
de Gleichen were among them. Another, the Mar- 
quis de Mora, will presently claim a chapter to 
himself. The gallery in which these names have 
place might be almost indefinitely studied, but room 
can here be found for only two pre-eminent person- 
alities. The first of these is Abbe Galiani, "the 
little thing " and the spoilt boy of Madame Geoffrin, 
worthy compatriot of Marquis Caraccioli, and, if we 
may so put it, a miniature edition of that large man. 
If the Abbes boast be true, he was used daringly to 
" ramble " at his ease, and to perorate freely, in the 
severe atmosphere of Rue Saint Honore, under the 
very eye of the old mistress of the apartment, who 
was indulgent to his lapses alone ; and within reach 
of the momentarily unlifted arm of Burigny, that mis- 
tress's lord-high-executioner. It is easy to imagine 
the audacity of his paradox, and the extravagance 
of his buffoonery, in that other salon so lightly 
ruled by Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. There he 



2o8 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

might tell any tale if only it were couched in re- 
spectable language, and his most futile antic was 
sure of indulgence. He, indeed, conceitedly relates 
the story of "this ever-to-be-remembered supper 
at which I was so pleasing by virtue of my sheer 
ogreishness, establishing for fact that I loved only 
the money of my friends in one kind, and the beds 
of my friends in the other. . . . Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse allowed that I was perhaps sane in this, 
and the entire Court of the Philosophical Parliament 
decided that a gay ogre is of more worth than a 
sentimental bore." 

The lively Neapolitan confesses that nowhere 
did he feel himself more free, better appreciated, or 
more " at home," than in the " crimson salon " of Rue 
Saint Dominique. Professional jester he may be, 
but the Abbe has a catch in his voice, hide it as he 
will, on the day when he must bid farewell, and with 
no hope of return, to the delightful circle — "the joy 
of my life " during his days in France. " I could 
not muster the courage to bid you farewell. So 
here is my good-bye, and do not forget me, for to a 
sensitive spirit that is no easy hour which for ever 
separates us from our friends and those whom we 
love, and honour, and esteem." To his exile in 
Naples he reconciles himself " as the fiends to Hell," 
and for many years he continually requires news of 
his incomparable friend. "What does Mademoi- 
selle de Lespinasse ? Her dog } How's her parrot, 
and is he always blaspheming ? She can see how I 
remember all that touches her ! " Perhaps these 
constant sighs may sometimes win him a thought 



LORD SHELBURNE 209 

from her, " for she is poHte, true, has a happy 
memory, and reads much, and I was once a book 
which she read without wearying." 

Notwithstanding their irremediable separation, 
JuHe certainly did not forget the Abbe whose antics 
and sallies had more than once lightened her bad 
hours. She kept still more green the memory of a 
man of whom this same Galiani wrote with airy 
disdain : " He is that rare creature, an amiable 
Englishman, and has been a Secretary of State in 
London, quite a common thing." This " amiable 
Englishman " was William Petty, Count Shelburne, 
afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne, the leader of 
the Opposition since Pitt retired from Parliament. 
During a visit to Paris in the summer and autumn 
of 1774, he was powerfully attracted to Julie. The 
attraction proved mutual, and the pair met almost 
daily, whether during intimate calls or at social 
gatherings in which, their feelings being known to 
all, the company contrived to throw them together. 
"He leaves in a week, and I am heartily glad of it," 
cries Julie, worn out, " for he is the reason of my 
having dined daily with a party of fifteen. ... I 
want rest, for my works are run down." 

This complaint need not be taken too literally, 
but we may rather believe this deliberate judgment 
on Lord Shelburne : " I have seen much of him, and 
I have listened to him. He has spirit, fire, and a 
high tone. He reminds me somewhat of the two 
men whom I have loved, ^ and for whom I would 
live or die." Her enthusiasm is such "that she shares 

^ Count Guibert and the Marquis de Mora. 



2IO JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

it with all the world," writes Morellet, and that with 
those "energetic expressions" of which she has the 
habit whenever her heart is moved. Writing to 
Lord Shelburne himself, Morellet touches nicely- 
enough on the origin of this sympathy. " I should 
tell you, if only to drop your conceit a point, that 
your chief attraction for her is the quality with which 
her friends always reproach her — ardent and insati- 
able activity, a fire and vehemence of the affections 
which devour and consume. These things she 
found in you, and so she loves her own faults in you. 
We others, cold and wise people, call this horrible 
and fatal, but it is futile to suppose that either of you 
are capable of reformation. Therefore, as gluttons 
bidden to the feast of him whose ruin provides their 
meat, we devour all and make good cheer, saying, 
' This man runs fast to ruin, and his table shall not 
long be spread thus.' " 

Rapid intimacy between the pair was doubtless the 
fruit of such a similarity in character, but Julie took 
a particular interest in Shelburne's political capacity. 
Her curiosity was almost passionately aroused by this 
minister of yesterday and again-to-be minister to- 
morrow — the leader of a great party in a free state ; 
the generous politician whose care was for the general 
good rather than his own pleasures and personal 
advantage. " Do you know," she writes to a friend, 
" how he rests his head and his soul after the fatigues 
of a government ? — by deeds of well-doing worthy 
a sovereign ; by creating opportunities for the free 
education of his tenantry ; by personally entering 
into the smallest details of their instruction and 



JULIE AS POLITICIAN 211 

welfare ! This is how a man of thirty-four finds 
relaxation, a man whose soul is as sensitive as it is 
strong. . . . What a distance between such an one 
and a Frenchman, our pretty gentlemen at Court ! " 
From this contrast between men, she unhesitatingly 
passes to the contrasted conditions under which men 
live in the two countries. " Certainly, President de 
Montesquieu knew what he said in — The Govern- 
ment makes the man. In this country, a man with 
any energy, high standards, or genius, is like the 
caged lion in a menagerie. He feels his power as a 
torture ; he is like a Patagonian compelled to walk 
on his knees! " 

These reflections on Lord Shelburne show us 
Julie in quite a new light, for such language reveals 
a class of women rare enough at this time — the 
woman with "a citizen's soul," loving liberty, an- 
hungered for reforms, carrying into public life the 
same impetuous heat, perhaps also the same chi- 
merical illusions, which are her habit in the matters 
of private life. Those who are interested in Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse may do worse than devote a 
moment to this side of her character. 

Note to Page 194. 
Portrait oj the Dauphin by Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. 

This document was enclosed with Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's 
letter of February 23rd, 1766, to David Hume, and is printed in the 
volume " Letters of Eminent Persons addressed to David Hume" : 

" I. Monsieur le Dauphin's earlier studies did not bear such fruit 
as might have been expected from his disposition and prodigious 
memory. After his first marriage, he recommenced his studies with 
the greatest assiduity, and devoured every conceivable work in belles 



212 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

lettres. Horace and Virgil he preferred among the poets ; but Cicero 
and Boileau he knew by heart. Horace he loved. His liking for 
Homer led him to commence the study of the Greek language, but he 
did not pursue this for any distance. It was from it, however, that he 
contracted a taste for the English language — a tongue in which he was 
sufficiently proficient at the time of his decease to be able to read 
Pope's translations from Homer. His lack of Greek scholarship was 
his lasting regret. He was perfected in the Latin tongue, and was at 
one time able to write it well. He was well grounded in Spanish, and 
slightly in Italian. Of German he had no more than a smattering, but 
he began this study, and only abandoned it, I believe, when he found 
himself out of sympathy with those German authors on whose works 
he commenced. 

"2. I never heard Monsieur le Dauphin speak of the modern 
philosophers, but I know that he was aware of the writings of many of 
these, and that he esteemed them. He had little sympathy for the 
moral doctrines imputed to them, but being a complete man of the 
world he never entirely credited all that he heard on this score. His 
spirit certainly inclined to philosophy at all times. During his illness, 
he made a constant study of ' Locke on the Human Understanding,' 
and his choice of books was an index to the condition of his health at 
this time. Thus he turned from Locke to belles lettres as his health 
declined, and returned to Locke as it improved. I am not aware 
whether or no he read Bolingbroke, Sidney, &c., but I believe that he 
did. I am certain that he read ' L'Esprit des Lois,' pen in hand, and 
that he was generally conversant with all the chief works upon Legis- 
lation, Public Rights, Politics, and so forth. 

" 3. I have no certain knowledge of his political leanings, for he 
was signally reserved despite his geniality. His respect for the law 
was extended to the persons of the magistracy — such of its members, 
at least, as kept within their station and were faithful ensuers of their 
functions. I can believe that he would have stood fast for authority, 
but that he would have wielded his own authority with a gentle hand. 
Kindness, ease, and gaiety were distinguishing traits of his spirit and 
intellect. His death bears sufficient witness to the fact of his courage. 
" 4. He was profoundly, sincerely, and convincedly religious. He 
had studied the subject from all sides, not excluding those of its relative 
power for good and harm upon the masses. He left an exhaustive 
monograph upon this subject, but Madame la Dauphine keeps this 
private. His gentle religion fell severely on none but himself, for the 
narrowness of bigotry was unknown to him. Thus all the world went 
astray in its opinion of him — the priests believed that he was for them, 
when religion was his single care ; the philosophers believed him a 
fanatic, when he would never have restrained any man in his opinions, 
if only they were kept within the bounds of wisdom, and would still 



PORTRAIT OF THE DAUPHIN 213 

less have become a persecutor. Kis character and principles were 
both the reverse of these ideas. He praised Saint Louis for his re- 
sistance to the Pope's attempts to encroach upon his royal authority, 
and certainly no priest would ever have encroached upon his own. He 
was addicted to no petty religious observances. Never, in all his long 
illness, was he guilty of a mean temper. His religion was on the grand 
model, to himself all, to the world simplicity and strength ; — a strength 
indeed and a joyousness known to few ; a kindness and a sweetness of 
disposition which nothing could alter. This simplicity, this force, and 
this noble resignation, have made men say that he died a philosopher. 
Certainly none ever died more bravely." 



CHAPTER VIII 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse and politics — Curious mixture of utopianism and 
pessimism — Her feeling for Turgot — ^Julie's ideas and tastes in music and 
literature — Her intimate life — Her horror of all change — Relations with 
her family — Regular correspondence with Abel de Vichy — She plays the 
mother to her brother — Her wise advice to him — Her sad confidences to 
him in respect of her poverty — Growing discouragement of her last 
years. 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse certainly did not 
acquire her taste for politics from Madame du 
Deffand or Madame Geoffrin, for the former pro- 
fessed an ironical indifference to their claims, while 
the latter held herself almost fearfully aloof Julie, 
on the contrary, was always intensely interested in 
the higher problems of government, which she 
studied with evident satisfaction to herself, but 
always rather from the theoretical than the prac- 
tical standpoint. In common with the majority 
of her contemporaries, the idea to her is more im- 
portant than the thing, while she can never resist the 
appeal of a formula or the magic of a phrase. In so 
far as her letters give a clue to her real ideas, her 
ideal seems more or less that which served to guide 
the earlier theorists of the Revolution, fifteen years 
after her death ; liberty in all its forms, republican- 
ism in fact, but under a monarchical system, which 
should make every public office electoral, and give 
a voice to all degrees. 

Her positive ideas may have been vague ; her 



JULIE'S REPUBLICANISM 215 

antipathies were extremely definite. Absolutism 
evokes her constant disapproval, scorn, denuncia- 
tion even. " How can one live under this govern- 
ment, and not despair ? " is a phrase repeated under 
a thousand variants, and this hatred of despotism is 
not confined to her own country. It ignores race 
or frontier, and, in the case of certain neighbouring 
countries, inspires judgments of really singular 
harshness and virulence. Russia is a particular 
object of her rage. Catherine the Great's careful 
attentions to the Encyclopaedia and the leading 
French philosophers may blind Diderot, Voltaire, 
Grimm, d'Alembert even. They are powerless to 
move the wrath of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. 
" What will you see there ? " she asks Guibert, on 
the eve of his departure for Saint Petersburg. 
"All that a man should flee, and of which his life 
should be able to escape the knowledge. You will 
see the things detested of your soul, slavery and 
tyranny, servility and insolence. You will, I know, 
be able to say — This is as it is with us only too 
often. But our vices are weakened by our very 
defects ; in that country, excessive misfortune alone 
tempers excessive corruption and baseness." 

Julie's mingled envy and admiration for the 
English Constitution is a natural result of this 
temper, and she proclaims her approval in terms 
which might be open to the charge of most un- 
patriotic bias, did not her ardent nature often lead 
her pen thus far in advance of her thought. " For 
myself, feeble and unfortunate creature that I am, 
had I to live again I would rather be born the 



2i6 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

humblest member of the House of Commons than 
even King of Prussia. Indeed, to gain the glories 
of Voltaire alone, would I consent to be reborn to 
any heritage but that of an Englishwoman." Wher- 
ever she compares England and France, and this is 
at all points, the verdict is always for the former 
country, and towards the end of her life, she seems 
to have fallen into the toils of that spirit of parti- 
sanship and bitter pessimism which times of trouble 
so easily invest with all the appearance of prophetic 
instinct. Thus when, on the day of Louis's XV's 
death, Morellet met and communicated this news to 
" a carriage-full of friends " returning from Auteuil, 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse leaned out of the 
window and interrupted the general exchange of 
congratulations with a tragic — *' My dear Abb^, far 
worse is yet to come!" Morellet remarks, "We 
considered that she was very pessimistic then, but 
afterwards, in the midst of the Revolution, those 
who had witnessed this incident were prone to 
invest her words with prophetic significance." 

Even when the supreme direction of affairs was 
placed in philosophical hands by the inclusion in the 
Ministry of Turgot and Malesherbes — the first, her 
" friend of seventeen years," and the latter more 
newly, but little less intimately so — the event, which 
should seemingly have crowned her hopes, cannot 
at first scatter her doubts or dissipate her mournful 
previsions. " There is so much news, excitement, 
and rejoicing," she writes to Guibert, "that one 
knows not to whom to listen. I would fain feel 
happy, but that seems impossible." Two days later 



TURCOT 217 

she writes again : " Rejoicings are general, but 
there is this difference between my temper and the 
spirit of all around me : they are in transports of 
joy over their new hopes ; I can only continue to 
breathe the misfortunes from which we are newly 
delivered." "If he cannot bring good to pass," 
she writes of Turgot, yet a little later, " we shall 
not be Big John as heretofore, but a thousand times 
more unhappy by reason of the hope which is taken 
from us." These extracts give an idea of the pro- 
gressive alteration in her temper, a progress in 
despite of herself, we may almost say. Slowly and 
very gradually, the honesty of the new ministers 
and their evident good intentions lead her to feel 
that they may be able to carry out the most 
pressing reforms. Turgot she can now call " an 
excellent man. If he can keep his place, he will 
be the nation's idol. He is possessed by a desire 
for the public good, and he lavishes himself to that 
end." Her chief hope lies in the union of the two 
friends, now fellows in office, and when Guibert 
doubts, " You would have all the trouble in the 
world to put two wills into their two heads," she 
replies, " They have one will and one only — to do 
the best that is possible. Assuredly I love them, 
though the right word would be even stronger, and 
I respect them from the bottom of my heart. . . . 
Truly," she adds a little later, " that which is is 
beyond the best which might have been hoped, and 
was impossible to forecast." 

So unforeseen a change from darkness to hope 
in the mind of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse is. 



2i8 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

perhaps, to be read in conjunction with a remem- 
brance of the very special attitude of these ministers 
towards herself. She undoubtedly enjoyed much 
influence with them, and it may well have been a 
factor in dissipating her fears. " We are to be 
governed by philosophers," sneered Madame du 
Deffand, " and I certainly regret my failure to 
secure their protection. The one road to that 
now lies through Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. 
Am I to take it ? " Their elevation to power 
certainly did not relax the earlier ties between 
the two statesmen and their intelligent friend, and 
they willingly and most courteously defer to her 
opinion. Turgot continues to spend long hours 
in her company, discussing his projects, asking 
her advice, and listening to her criticism with 
that ** completeness" and simplicity which he used 
when, she says, "he submitted his efforts at versi- 
fication " in an earlier day. Malesherbes follows 
suit, and gladly consecrates part of his leisure to 
her. She is positive, and we need not disbelieve 
her, that such flattering attentions do not turn her 
head. " I do not stand by Monsieur Turgot from 
motives of gratitude. I should not forget his great 
worth did he ignore my existence. ... I could tell 
you much of Monsieur de Malesherbes," she writes 
elsewhere, "but that might sound as it would not 
be meant. After all, it is not easy to perish of 
vanity when one is dying of sadness." 

Julie's faith is always of gossamer, and her illu- 
sions do not endure. The ministry is no sooner 
confronted with its first difficulties than she returns 



HER POLITICAL CREED 219 

to her earlier doubts and fears, and forthwith 
resumes her mantle of Cassandra. **Our friend," 
she writes, during the troubled days of " The 
War of the Flours," "remained calm during the 
storm, and lost neither his courage nor good sense. 
He worked day and night. I, owning neither his 
courage nor his virtues, confess myself full of grief 
and fears. My fears wear the guise of beliefs, and 
I cannot contemplate the future without terror. . . . 
Can anything humble one more than to see ill for 
sole issue of the efforts of a king who desires the 
good, and a minister to whom it is a passion ? 
Caraccioli talks sense : We are, for the most part, 
plain scum." 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse's general political 
creed can be deduced from all this with fair accu- 
racy. She is by conviction an idealist, a sceptic 
where facts are concerned. If curiosity would lead 
us to picture her attitude, had she survived until 
the Revolution, we may see her as a second 
Madame Roland at its beginning — wildly excited, 
in transports of feverish hope ; presently, one of the 
first to be disillusioned. Her disgust and revulsion 
would have been the more acute by the measure of 
her first excitement, natural results both of a mind 
always unevenly poised — a mind, in her own phrase, 
"like a thermometer gone wrong," leaping up from 
the poles "to the burning zone of the Equator," 
only again to plunge back to the pole, at no time 
able to mark "the mean." 

Political speculations command Julie's lively 
interest, but they never move her heart. She 



220 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

can neither really belong nor unreservedly yield 
herself to anything which does not appeal directly 
to her sensibilities, which does not stir her feelings 
or thrill her inmost being. This is the especial 
appeal of music. She always loved it "in the 
midst of my youthful dissipations," and the sweet 
hours of her happiest period ; but she confessed that 
never could it so charm, so appear in its true value, 
as in the dark days when she has drained the bitter 
cup to its lees. " Incurable pain seeks only that 
which can soothe, and of such healers all Nature has 
shown me but three." First of these, she names the 
presence of the man whom she loves ; next opium, 
"refuge of despair"; finally, "the charmer of my 
woes is music. Music bestows upon my blood, and 
all which moves me, such sweetness, and a sensi- 
bility so delicious, that I might almost say that 
regrets and every ill are turned to delight by its 
magic." Her delight in melody teaches her the 
words with which to describe it, as when she writes 
thus of Orpheus: "I wept, but tears had no 
bitterness ; my pains were delight. . . . Music, 
charming and divine art, was surely the invention 
of a man called to console the unfortunate ! " Or, 
again of the same opera : " My feelings were so 
acute, so moved ; they so rent and so absorbed 
me, that words are incapable of expressing my 
sensations. I felt all the troubles and the joys of 
passion, until my one need was to withdraw myself; 
and those who did not share my feeling may well 
have found me stupid. This music was so allied 
to my soul and disposition that I shut myself up at 



HER LOVE OF MUSIC 221 

home in order to continue my enjoyment of the 
sensations which it evoked. . . . These voices 
joined charm to pain ; their notes, as it were alive 
and moving, haunted me." 

Julie's tastes are easily to be read in these 
quotations, which leave little doubt as to her 
preference between the rival schools then suing 
for public favour. Yet she neither decries nor 
proscribes the music that pleases but does not 
move, and speaks rather to the brain than the 
soul. " Exaggerate I may, I never ignore," she 
writes in her Apologie^ and this is a true 
verdict. In music, as in all else, she can appre- 
ciate the most diverse and apparently incompatible 
schools, and it is in this spirit that she writes after 
hearing a composition by Gretry. " I admired his 
talent, for never was music more spirited, delicate, 
or full of the most refined taste. It is as the talk of 
a witty, daring, and elegant conversationalist, who 
will always attract and never weary." Later, 
praising the author of La Fausse Magie, she 
takes occasion to define the limits of her admira- 
tion : " Friend Gretry must confine himself to 
the sweet, agreeable, sensible, and spiritual — surely 
enough ! A little man whose proportions are good 
will find it both dangerous and ridiculous to climb 
upon stilts." His pleasant talent must not for a 
moment be compared with the marvellous genius 
of Gluck, nor these pleasant melodies with those 
" sublime " numbers which overcome her, carry 
her away, make her "as it were crazed." . . . 

^ Apologie d* Une Pauvre Personne, &^c. 



222 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

" How compare what merely pleases with that 
which fills the soul, wit with passion, or a lively 
and animated pleasure with the sweet melancholy 
by which sorrow almost becomes joy ? " 

Literature stands to be judged in a like spirit 
and fashion. She has neither bias nor prejudice, 
and does not entrench herself behind the walls of 
any clique, but her preferences are not the less 
definite. Her "Apologia" embodies a brief review 
of her favourite authors and works, and this draws 
very precise distinctions between the values which 
she places upon each. The Maxims of La Roche- 
foucauld are approved for their "severity," and 
Montaigne's Essays for their charming "unconven- 
tionality." La Fontaine's Fables are naive and 
simple. But she reads Racine's pathetic tragedies 
with a species of "passion," and stands almost alone 
in her age in her enthusiastic " transports " over 
certain of Shakespeare's plays. Voltaire's wit she 
judges amusing, while the multiplicity of his gifts 
astonishes. The idylls of "sweetly peaceful" Gessner 
soothe ; there is a delicate flavour in Marivaux' 
" fine subtleties " and " appetising affectations " ; but 
she is almost terrified before the " inflammatory 
eloquence" of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and "Clarissa 
Harlowe" brings her " to her knees." Among the 
other English writers whose work her knowledge of 
that language enables her to study, Sterne gains 
special approval for his discreet sensibility and 
restrained emotion. Morellet considers her pre- 
eminently responsible for the popularity of the 
"Sentimental Journey" in France. She certainly 



HER INTELLECTUAL CHARACTER 223 

amused herself, on one occasion, by forging two 
additional chapters to this work and reading them 
to Madame Geoffrin and her circle "as unpub- 
lished." Their plagiarism was so skilful and the 
composition so clever that all hearers were com- 
pletely deceived, adjudged them better than the 
rest, and "far better translations." 

The mental outlook of Julie de Lespinasse 
was little less complex than was her conduct. I 
have dealt at length with her opinions and her 
preferences, but some such study in detail seemed 
necessary to a proper understanding of her intel- 
lectual point of view — in modern phrase, "her com- 
plicated mentality." She is eclectic in the sense of 
her own expression — "a voracity for affection," 
which means that she is predisposed to welcome 
anything that induces a new sensation. But she 
really cares for nothing which does not stir her 
deeper feelings ; which, be it for a moment only, 
lifts her " out of herself," and sets the blood to 
coursing more hotly, more rapidly through her 
veins. It may therefore be said that there is but 
one real passion behind all her varied tastes, and 
that, multifarious as are the expressions of her 
moral "portrait," its physiognomy still presents 
an harmonious unity. 

In the setting which has now been traced, 
and among the friends whom we have seen as 
her companions, the heroine of this biography 
passed many quiet years, each day of them re- 
sembling the last, and all filled with the most 
lofty distractions. We can follow the disposition 



224 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

of those days with the greatest minuteness. Julie 
seldom stirred abroad before two o'clock, but 
spent her morning hours in reading and writ- 
ing, unless, as often happened, she received the 
visits of special friends anxious to enjoy her un- 
interrupted company. At two she dined, a brief 
and simple meal habitually shared with d'Alembert, 
except on Mondays and Wednesdays, when both 
were among the regular company round Madame 
GeofFrin's table. The afternoon was devoted to 
drives or visits ; sometimes to a walk through a 
museum, or the exhibitions which were becoming 
fashionable about this time. Six always sees her 
at home, and her salon never empties before nine 
at the earliest. Here, the conversation is frequently 
interrupted by readings, as when La Harpe strains 
his throat to declaim a new tragedy, or Marmontel 
lets fall one of his Contes Moraux, of laboured 
simplicity and chilly impropriety. More serious 
works are also read here — historical fragments or 
portions of a scientific memoir. Madame du 
Deffand caustically paints Caraccioli's astonish- 
ment at one such scene. " He was drunk with 
all the lovely things that he had heard read. 
Condorcet had lauded one Fontaine ; Monsieur 
de Chabanon deigned to translate Theocritus, and 
I can't tell you who had not contributed both 
tales and fables. And all these were more 
splendid than anything of the kind ever before 
heard of." 

Except for a few brief summer visits to the 
country, she pursued this round from year's end to 



HER CONSERVATISM 225 

year's end, and it soon became matter for a quite 
serious effort if Mademoiselle de Lespinasse was 
to break with her monotonous habits for even a 
week. At first, she possibly felt some yearning 
for an earlier and more simple way of life. "All 
the world is in the country," she cries one day, 
"and soon I mean to give myself some air with 
all that world." But such yearnings, if yearnings 
they were, soon passed, and she yielded to a species 
of carelessness and horror of physical effort which 
made the idea of any change or journey intolerable. 
To have to spend twenty-four hours away from 
home calls for loud complaints, and she is feverishly 
anxious to be back in Rue Saint Dominique. 
" Here am I in the country with my secretary 
(d'Alembert), who salutes you ; and, really, I might 
have been the world round, so disagreeable do I 
find the change. We arrived in execrable weather, 
in a carriage that would not shut properly, in wind 
and in rain." All this pother is the result of a 
two days' visit to Monsieur d'Hericourt, at the 
Chateau du Boulai, near Fontainebleau. " I'd as 
lief die," she writes of another similar occasion, 
" but they say that we owe certain things to our 
social duty. I find duties of this kind very stupid 
at times." The high-roads she will not face, 
and, notwithstanding a hundred invitations, she 
never once, after coming to Paris, renewed ac- 
quaintance with the province in which she had 
once passed so many years, or the places where 
her nearest relatives still dwelt. Yet she was by 
no means devoid of family feeling, and a judgment 



226 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

based on such appearances would do her a distinct 
wrong. Neither her false position before the world, 
nor the machinations with which she rightly or 
wrongly reproaches certain persons, nor all her 
new ties, ever effaced her earlier affection for 
the comrades of her youth — for some of them, 
at all events, and for Abel de Vichy in particular. 
She corresponded regularly with this young brother 
until her last days, and these touching letters ex- 
hibit her character in a light hitherto unknown to 
the world's eye. 

The permanence of Julie's affection for Abel is 
the more remarkable since their ways lay so far 
apart. Abel's early entry into the army, and his 
service as bearer of the colours in the Gendarmes 
du Berri, seldom {allowed him to see his sister ; 
and when he had married Mademoiselle de Saint 
Georges in 1766, a young provincial, "pretty, tall, 
amiable, with a fine figure, extremely well brought- 
up," and of good family but little or no fortune, he 
was less than ever in a position to pay frequent 
visits to the metropolis. Julie, indeed, did not see 
her sister-in-law until two years after the marriage. 
We find her asking the young husband whether he 
has " the good fortune and good taste to be in love 
with your wife.-* Is she lively, gay? What is her 
character? In a word, dear friend, draw me her 
portrait, since I cannot see her ; teach me to know 
her, and you will give me real pleasure. I do not 
mean her physical but her moral portrait, for this 
is what really matters to your happiness, and no 
one is more interested in that than myself — after 



ABEL DE VICHY 227 

your wife, of course ! " This tone of simple affec- 
tion pervades the entire correspondence. Julie 
does not here choose words or parade sentiments. 
Every line in her letters breathes the liveliest in- 
terest in all Abel's affairs, and she takes care to 
give him all the news about herself, even to such 
details as the welfare of her little dog Sophilette, 
and the parrot — "a terrible talker of nonsense." 

But the chief interest of these letters is the way 
in which they shed a hitherto undreamed-of light 
upon the character of her whom men variously 
called the Sappho of her age, and the Muse of 
the Encyclopcedia. Every page is filled with the 
most judicious and virtuous counsel — circumspect, 
prudent, and wise sisterly advice to a young brother, 
doubtless " a good boy," yet inclined to the hot 
and wayward conduct natural to his age. To read 
these letters, a trifle " preachy," but true models 
of worldly wisdom, is to find a most unexpected 
Julie — mistress of her home, careful housekeeper, 
even a trifle niggardly ; a woman as prudent, prac- 
tical, and sage where her brother is concerned as 
she is passionate, headstrong, rash, and impulsive 
in all that touches herself. Thus, when Abel, 
lately married, proposes to leave the army in order 
better to consecrate himself to his adored wife and 
the care of his estate, Julie is a very copy-book 
counsellor. "You cannot examine yourself too 
carefully lest you one day regret this renunciation 
of what the world holds a most promising avenue 
of advancement. But this is by no means all. You 
are in duty bound to foresee a day when passion 



228 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

shall have cooled. Will idleness please you then ? — 
for no one can suppose that the care of his acres 
is sufficient occupation for an active mind. Just 
now it may seem sufficient, for your mind is ab- 
sorbed in an active passion. I do not doubt that 
ample confidence and true friendship will follow. 
But, yet again, a time will come, and with it a void, 
and your military duties would fill that void. ... I 
wished to say all that my tender affection for you 
has taught me to see. I desire your happiness 
above all else, and therefore I cannot wish you 
lightly to take a step which will and must influence 
every day of life that remains to you." 

Advice thus reiterated won the usual reward 
of its kind. Abel can hear no voice but that of 
his own desire, and his decision to send in his 
papers gives Julie one more opportunity. He is 
determined, and therefore she neither regrets nor 
reproaches, but she does give practical advice as to 
how he may best conduct the affair so as to avoid 
unpleasant criticism. " He had better," she writes 
to his mother, " send in his resignation by means 
of the briefest possible letter to the Due de Choiseul. 
He should not spare the expression of his regrets, 
and he must be perfectly open. The same post 
should carry a simple intimation of the act to 
Madame du Deffand, and another to the Abbe de 
Champrond. Thus, he should escape many com- 
ments which cannot but gall his feelings." Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse also impressed upon Abel 
the necessity of nursing the susceptibilities of the 
redoubtable Marquise — surely a most disinterested 



SISTERLY ADVICE 229 

action on her part. "Why have you not told the 
Marquise that you contemplated this step? It 
would have been dealing more properly by her, 
— and pardon me if I remark that a man should 
always be careful in little matters of this sort." 
Duty satisfied, she turns to the most charming ex- 
hortations to enjoy to the full, and without a regret, 
the peaceable, obscure, and responsible path which 
he has chosen. "You have counted the cost, and 
there is no more to say. But you must expect that 
this country will not spare its strictures, for its 
standard of judgment is almost wholly wedded to 
vanity, its idea of pleasure is to stand well with the 
world, and its watchword, ' Appearances are the 
man.' And this world of ours is right, for it lives a 
thousand miles beyond knowledge of what domestic 
happiness means, or the idea that a fortune may 
yield double pleasure when spent for the good of 
our estates, and in ensuring the welfare of those 
who depend upon us. We have refined upon re- 
finement until there is no pleasure in heaven or 
earth of which we are ignorant except simplicity 
and a natural existence. Do not, then, be vexed ; 
still less, trouble yourself. But these men of sense 
must needs rejoice after their own kind. The kind 
preferred by you is only to be praised, for your 
purposed life was made to content and satisfy a 
sensible and virtuous mind." 

From the day of Abel's choice, Julie concerns 
herself with his family life. The health and educa- 
tion of his children are her constant interest, but 
she would fain see them increase in number. " I 



230 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

wish you would not be content with two babes. 
You should have six, for you could make them so 
happy!" These "babes" are hardly out of bibs and 
tuckers before she must find them a suitable teacher, 
and faithful d'Alembert is drawn into the quest. 
In short, Julie's grand preoccupation is her brother's 
life in its most minute details, and her joy when the 
young couple arrive in Paris, in the autumn of 1770, 
is easily understood. Abel de Vichy's journal, and 
Julie's letters of the time, show that there was hardly 
a day of this visit on which brother and sister did 
not meet in the tenderest and closest intercourse. 
Now, and only now, she breaks with old habit, 
for these dear country-cousins must be shown the 
town, and no matter what the discomfort to her own 
poor health, Julie guides them through a whirl of 
expeditions, visits, suppers, and constant theatre- 
parties. 

The novelty of this, however, soon wore down, 
and a few weeks after their arrival saw Julie endea- 
vouring to temper all this dissipation with a little 
seriousness. Her success was far from complete, 
but the attempt must serve for key to the understand- 
ing of the following lines, in which she lightly accuses 
Abel of doing his best to disgust his wife with Paris 
and its ways. " I should be glad to know her safe 
at Montceaux, recuperating after all her fatigues — 
I cannot call them pleasures, for you have piled them 
up until she must loathe the name ! I am terribly 
afraid that she will hate Paris after the way you 
have hustled her about. That would be a pity. If 
I did not know your open ways, I should suspect 



HER SLENDER INCOME 231 

you of acting like those mothers who wish to drive 
their daughters into a nunnery, and yet to have 
nothing with which to reproach themselves. So 
they take the girls about, allow them all sorts of 
dissipations, jewelry, and the play, until the poor 
things are utterly disgusted, and fly a world which, 
they are assured, is no sort of place for them. . . . 
I trust that Madame de Vichy will, therefore, refuse 
to judge Paris by what she has seen of it, for I 
swear that if life here were what she has found it, 
I should verily hold Carmelite vows a far less 
rigorous tribulation." 

There is no need to multiply quotations of this 
kind. Those that have been set out show Julie 
clearly enough in her novel part of guide and in- 
structress — one might almost say, of the mother of 
a family. Counsel and remonstrance do not, how- 
ever, fill all her letters to Abel. She does not make 
him the partaker in her troubles of the heart, as 
may be well supposed, but she discusses other inti- 
mate details freely, her health, the servants, and her 
limited means. She usually preserves a haughty 
stoicism on this last cause of anxiety, but when she 
does speak of it to her brother and a few other rela- 
tives, she confesses to grave fears for the future and 
considerable present embarrassment. A letter to 
Abel de Vichy, on the day when he settled at 
Montceaux, contains this plaintive passage : " I am 
sure that you are never so happy as when at Mont- 
ceaux, for there you first learned the joys of owner- 
ship, and I hear that they are very real joys, although 
it seems that I shall die without tasting them. Big 



232 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

estates I should not care for, but I confess that I 
begin to weary of my poverty, which will become a 
real misfortune when I am a little older. But suffi- 
cient unto the day is the evil, etc. ! " She returns to 
the theme a few years later, the occasion being certain 
new taxes which bear heavily upon her slender purse : 
" You need only take away my friends to see me the 
victim of all earthly ills, — poverty, poor health, and 
trouble of the mind. Yet I think that few would 
have carried this burden better than I have done, for 
I seldom complain, though life is indeed a burden at 
times. But the passage of the years does frighten 
me, since our wants increase with age, while Abbe 
Terray has already carried off 400 livres of my 
income. This is a mean wail, but to have one's 
necessaries curtailed like this is to have occasion 
to feel." 

The last letter of the series preserved for our 
eyes touches a note yet more lamentable. Here, 
and only here in all this long correspondence, Julie's 
spirit is touched with gall, or her feelings are strained. 
" I asked you certain questions which you have 
ignored," she complains to her brother. "If this 
was an oversight, it is one easily understood ; if it 
has come about by design, I must say that your 
prudence has been carried too far. I certainly do 
not wish to force or even excite a confidence ; I am 
not curious, and I can restrain my zeal. Therefore, 
believe that any mark of your friendship will always 
gratify me, but that I shall never complain when you 
may fail me in this regard. Those who have suffered 
like me, and who have known life only to be dis- 



HER CHANGED TEMPER 233 

gusted and disillusioned, are people with whom in- 
tercourse is easy. They expect little, and they resent 
nothing." So novel a strain for her pen, such com- 
plaint for a light cause, and such bitter discourage- 
ment, surely point to a change in Julie's temper. 
She has, indeed, arrived at a period when all that 
has hitherto formed her especial pleasures or pursuits 
— the fame of her salon, the friendship of brilliant 
men, and the high distractions of art and literature, 
even the very pains of friendship — are to seem vain 
things and savourless. The story of Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse becomes, henceforth, the story of her 
passion, its strifes and struggles. All her faculties, 
a strain to one goal, are absorbed and concentrated 
on that which she may not enjoy in peace, but which 
denies her the ability to enjoy anything else. 



CHAPTER IX 

Love in the latter half of the eighteenth century — Revolutionary influence on 
feminine ideas of the works of J. J. Rousseau and Richardson — Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse is the most illustrious victim of the romantic 
infection — The Fuentes family — Birth and education of the Marquis de 
Mora — His marriage — His father-in-law, Count d'Aranda — Death of the 
Marquise de Mora — The Marquis comes to Paris — Reputation of the 
family — His personal success in the literary and social salons — First 
meeting with Julie — His instant attraction for her — He leaves Paris 
directly afterwards — His triumphant reception in Madrid society — His 
essays in literature — Relations with the Duchesse de Huescar — Sudden 
death of Mora's son — He returns to Paris. 

Our subject has thus far been Julie de Lespinasse 
— the exquisite and original creature who exercised 
so potent a charm on all with whom she came in 
contact ; Julie — the incomparable charmer and per- 
fect entertainer, the warm and devoted friend, the 
discreet counsellor, whose every word was wisdom 
and the voice of very reason. I have tried to 
picture her thus — as she appeared to the most of 
those who knew her, and many quotations from the 
mouths of these her friends prove that my portrait 
has not been imaginative. Having more know- 
ledge than the majority of her contemporaries, or 
even her friends, the name of this woman brings 
before us a personality really known to few in her 
day, suspected perhaps by others, apparent, as they 
supposed, to two or three at most, but probably 
comprehended by not one, to the end. For this 
woman was of the world's great lovers — exalted, 
torn, consumed ; burnt by the passion which ob- 



LOVE AND THE AGE 235 

sessed her to unreason ; tortured by jealousy, an- 
guish, and remorse ; whose rent and bleeding soul 
was made manifest, when thirty years were gone 
over her grave, by the publication of the famous 
letters which contain, as has been said, "the loudest 
heart-beats " in all the eighteenth century. By 
these pages, so terribly sincere, Julie de Lespin- 
asse lives, as she will continue to live, in the 
minds of men ; her long pain is made her posthu- 
mous glory. She is, indeed, the final type of a 
class rare at all times, particularly rare in the epoch 
which saw her live. 

And here let it be agreed that the common 
opinion — that the age of powder and patches was 
incapable of more than the scandalous parody and 
profanation of love — does not run in these pages. 
Before condemning an entire century, it is surely 
well to realise that it contained two eras of which 
the latter redeems the former — in part, at least. 
The Regency, and the years which followed on it, 
pursued pleasure, butterfly caprice, and the quick 
satisfaction of sense or vanity ; the second half of 
the century saw a moral and intellectual revolution 
in which avowed gallantry and cynical libertinage 
gave place to a very different propaganda. Chas- 
tity and constancy obtain the honour lately paid to 
their reverse; "attachments" replace "fancies," 
and, even as these are the issue of free choice, 
they are often, as it were, a second marriage, and 
one held in the more honour, since marriage in that 
day was seldom other than a compact, made with- 
out choice or inclination. Morality in the strict 



236 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

sense is not bettered, perhaps ; but few will care to 
deny that the dignity of life is a gainer, or that this 
very irregularity masks a rise in the estimation of 
virtue. So, at least, recalling her youth, adjudges 
a woman ^ whose notorious honesty permits her to 
be indulgent. " Good God ! how unjustly the age is 
judged ! How generous, well nurtured, and delicate 
was that distinguished society! How solid its ties! 
What faith to sworn faith, even in the least moral 
of relations ! " 

The tone of the day in regard to these almost 
public connections is one of gentle friendship, emo- 
tional, confiding ; of a sensibility easily moved to 
tears and tinged with melancholy. The accent of 
passion seldom speaks ; there is no ecstasy nor no 
despair. This is no ground for wonder. Love in 
delirium is, like a high fever, rare — a matter, we 
may suppose, that does call for regret. But 
a sentiment is not the less real because it is not 
hysterical. It is very clear that a transformation did 
occur during the forty years immediately preceding 
the Revolution, and this undeniable advance was 
largely due to the pens of two famous writers, 
Richardson and Jean Jacques Rousseau. The real 
power of literature needs no clearer testimony than 
this of the influence exercised upon women of the 
time by volumes of which the mere titles are un- 
known to so many of their sisters of to-day. In 
street and boudoir a long shiver seemed to pierce 
woman's torpid egoism. She rose up as at the 
break of morning, and the agents of this change 

^ La Vie de la Princesse de Poix, par la Vicomtesse de Noailles. 



JULIE AND LOVE 237 

were La Nouvelle HSloise, Clarissa Harlowe, Sir 
Charles Grandison. Eyes thus opened were aware 
of an obscure suffering and a moral void ; that 
joy was dead, and existence vain without an ideal. 
Salvation cried for those joys of the heart and the 
sentimental life, and the fount of tears was quickened 
in the deeps of long-dry souls. The re-arisen fires 
shone brighter for the darkness past, and love was 
seen as a god new-born, beneficent, twice adorable, 
who was so long forgot. 

In many women the change was certainly more 
apparent than real ; their conformity was a fashion, 
a pose, an elegance of some kind, rather than a vital 
metamorphosis. Yet some were surely reached by 
this new grace, which moved yet others to the 
depths. Mademoiselle de Lespinasse was of these 
last — their chief, in fact. Her temperament was 
naturally ardent, exaggerated, and headlong, and she 
was no sooner aware of the ocean of passion than 
she plunged into it, and could never again master her 
soul. Love for love's sake was her creed when she 
found it, and the man was distinctly second to the 
emotion which forthwith became the focus and the 
end of existence. " Read in the deeps of my heart," 
she cries in perfect good faith, " and place therein 
yet more and better trust than in my words. Can 
words ever express feeling, that which moves us 
and whereby we draw breath — this greater neces- 
sity, aye ! more than very air, for of life I have no 
need, while love I must ! " And, from amidst such 
fierce effusions, rises ever as a refrain the remem- 
brance of those who have kindled the flame that 



238 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

devours — Jean Jacques, who " holds me so that I am 
afraid," and Richardson, whose romance she never 
reads but the story of Clarissa Harlowe seems some- 
how to become her own. " You will think me mad," 
she writes to an intimate, " but read one of Clarissa's 
letters, a page of Jean Jacques, and confess if you 
have not heard my very voice. I do not mean that 
I speak with their tongue, but we be dwellers in 
one land. My soul responds to every beat of 
Clarissa's dolorous heart." 

This romantic obsession has clear dangers to an 
inflammable mind. Certain disillusionment can 
alone reward one who moulds herself on such a 
type of the superhuman ideal, the impossible ; who 
would bring within the domain of real life the ex- 
aggerated sentiments of fiction. Those who fly high 
must needs risk falls that can only end in broken 
wings and sore bruises, and this was Julie's last 
end and the secret of her pains. Of these pains 
she is, beyond cavil, chief author and artificer ; and 
the greatest crime of him whom she will call 
"murderer" and "executioner," and yet love to the 
end, is that he was merely a man when he should 
be a hero of romance. Yet her mistake has its 
explanation and excuse. Before the grand mistake, 
chance sent her one assuredly made in such rare 
image as might well encourage the vain dream, and 
give form to the visions of her fevered brain. 

The Marquis de Mora, without being at all 
points the "perfect lover" or "celestial creature," 
visions of whom were to haunt Julie to the grave, 
was at least the victim of circumstances that in- 



THE MARQUIS DE MORA 239 

vested him with all appearances of such a pheno- 
menon. Absence, sickness, and untimely death 
perpetuated his desirability, and crowned him with 
the aureole of her dreams. He was certainly the 
cause of her first incursion into the realms of great 
love. 

The personality of the Marquis de Mora has 
hitherto been very indefinite, but certain new 
papers/ communicated to me, make possible a 
fairly clear reconstruction of the man as he was ; 
and since he undoubtedly dominates the whole 
sentimental side of Julie's life, it seems only fitting 
that this portrait should be given in full. He it is 
on whom she calls in secret, though now she burn 
for another ; faithless to those earlier vows so freely 
lavished upon him, he is the god behind the altar 
before which she bows in secret remorse. This 
dual sentiment presents a curious mental problem, 
the inwardness of which may reveal itself more 
clearly if we inquire into the strange history of the 
mutual allegiance of these strange characters. 

The Aragonese branch of the Pignatelli family 
— another was domiciled at Naples — is one of the 
oldest and most famous in Spain. Its most notable 
figure in the eighteenth century, Don Joaquin 
Atanasio, sixteenth Count of Fuentes, was a trusted 
servant of His Most Catholic Majesty. Tall and 
wizened, and " handsomely ugly," this grandee had 
nothing of the aloofness and chill gravity then 

* Retratos de Antano (Madrid, 1895. Privately printed for the 
Duchesse de Villa Hcrmosa.) Also, El Marquis dc Mora (ibid. 
1903), both by P. Coloma. 



240 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

attributed to all his nation. He is, indeed, re- 
marked as possessing the Italian rather than the 
Spanish temperament — a gay and lively person, 
gracious, willing to please ; a servant of the ladies, 
and one who flitted ever here and there, "never seen 
to take a seat or stand in one place." In diplomatic 
affairs, however, he was a serious man, somewhat 
stiff as became his grave duties, and as impene- 
trable a keeper of political secrets as he was socially 
expansive in a salon. Dofia Maria Luiza Gonzaga 
y Caracciolo, Duchesse de Solferino, his wife, was 
credited with more brains than education. She 
was affable but a trifle futile, a passionate gambler, 
and ensuer of high social pleasures — one, in short, 
born to grace a court, were not her poor health a 
continual obstacle often compelling her to lead the 
quiet life for a whole season's round. Her first 
child, Maria Luisa Gonzaga, entered the monastery 
of the Salesiennes in 1762 ; the second, Don Jose y 
Gonzaga, born at Saragossa on April 19, 1744, 
received the traditional name of his house's eldest 
son, as Marquis de Mora. 

Commonly called Pepe in the family, this son 
passed his earlier years in the family palace on the 
Corso of Saragossa, with his younger brother Luis 
Pignatelli and a sister Maria Manuela. This sister 
married the Due de Villa Hermosa, and both she 
and her brother will presently reappear in these 
pages. In 1754, Mora being then in his tenth 
year, Ferdinand VI appointed his father ambas- 
sador to the Court of Turin, and here the lad was 
entrusted to the tutorship of Abbe de la Garanne. 



MORA'S MARRIAGE 241 

The Abb6 was a Frenchman and taught in that 
language, which readily explains Mora's future 
bilingual facility. To the same source must be 
traced his early profession of certain ideas more in 
honour on the banks of the Seine than on those of 
the Ebro or Manganares. 

At precisely twelve years of age the lad 
married, and was gazetted to a commission in 
the Spanish army ; and though either event was 
of nominal rather than immediate significance, his 
future was none the less affected. The girl with 
whom his destinies were thus summarily united 
bore the name of Maria Ignacia del Pilar, and 
was a daughter of Count d'Aranda, then Spanish 
ambassador at Lisbon, and head of a family 
between which and his own a great lawsuit had 
long been at issue. Thanks to her brother's 
recent death, this child of eleven was sole heir to 
a splendid fortune, while her immediate dowry was 
the Duchy of Almazan. The idea of terminating 
their feud by this marriage was no sooner mooted 
between the families concerned than it was put 
into effect, and on the morrow of December 4, 
1756, Mora awoke to find himself possessor of 
a wife who still dandled her doll. 

The three years following this fateful day Mora 
passed under the care of his stepmother and his 
tutor, at the Hotel d'Aranda in Saragossa — his 
father was still at Turin — but the close of the 
year 1759 brought a second ceremony of marriage. 
The Fuentes family returned from Turin and the 
Arandas from Portugal ; there were pomps and 

Q 



H2 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

rejoicings, and on April 6, 1760, "all the nobility 
of the kingdom " graced the religious service which 
sealed its earlier counterpart. All united to praise 
"the splendid boy"; few found a word to applaud 
the girl wife, with her skin " dark enough to 
frighten any man, and a mouth prematurely 
emptied of teeth." Horace Walpole's letter of 
the following June attests these last criticisms : 
" They say that she is not plain, and that her 
dentition is as good as may be expected of two 
teeth — and black uns at that." Surely neither keen 
eye nor boding spirit was required to prophesy the 
end of such an alliance. 

Madame de Mora counts little in her husband's 
story, but her family redressed the balance, for 
Count d'Aranda's influence potently affected the 
Marquis's character, and indeed turned his mind in 
the direction which he afterwards pursued more than 
willingly. This Count d'Aranda, singularly unlike 
the majority of his conservative countrymen, dared 
to turn his eyes beyond the Pyrenees, and to open 
his ears to the new doctrines there current. For 
years almost the sole representative of this new 
evangel at the Court of Castile, his subsequent acces- 
sion to power presented him in the rare guise of a 
theorist who practises his own doctrines. He was, 
however, a man of more will than wit, and his dull 
and frequently obscure tongue was a sad disappoint- 
ment to Paris when he carried his high renown 
thither. His fair neighbour at a dinner given in his 
honour at Versailles complains loudly : "Not only 
did he fail to make a single witty remark, but he was 



COUNT ID'ARANDA 243 

as dull and ordinary as can be ! I think, however, 
that he is a trifle deaf, and unaware of it." Carac- 
cioli compared him to a deep well with a narrow 
mouth. His sound sense and lofty character were 
in direct contrast to his superficial failure. The Due 
de Levis found him " dignified without arrogance, 
and weighty without being slow. He could be im- 
penetrable without being mysterious." His strength 
of character amounted to obstinacy, and Charles HI 
called him " an Aragonese mule," but he kept his 
counsel as may few. Thus, so secretly were his 
plans laid for the famous expulsion of the Jesuits, 
his most notable ministerial act, that every one of 
their communities was closed at the same hour on 
the same day, yet never a man in the kingdom had 
heard word of what was to be. His dry answer 
to the question, " How could you act with such 
secrecy ? " " By holding my tongue ! " is charac- 
teristic of the man. 

That the Encyclopaedia welcomed so puissant a 
recruit with open arms is a fact which needs no 
chronicle. Voltaire led the dance with his accus- 
tomed spirit. " You are aware," he writes to Madame 
du Deffand, " that a matter of thirty cooks have been 
baking certain patties during these last few years in 
Europe. A taste has grown up for them even in 
Spain, where Count d'Aranda and his friends partake 
freely." Galiani records how the master's enthu- 
siasm was handed on: "The good old man is now 
pure Spanish — all for Aranda. Of course, all France 
follows suit, and the concert of applause is unani- 
mous." The Count is a hero who shall cleanse " the 



244 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

new Augean stables" ; a victorious abaser "of fana- 
tics and superstition " ; the brave liberator who has 
" chased the Jesuits out of Spain, and so shall chase 
plenty more such vermin." That Mora, whose 
essentially French education had increased his 
natural ardour for everything new, and who breathed 
in all this at the family hearth, immediately found 
himself at home in the saloji of Rue Saint Domi- 
nique, when he presently visited Paris, need not, 
therefore, astonish us. 

Count de Fuentes had no sooner married his 
son than he was appointed Spanish ambassador at 
London, whither the young couple accompanied 
him. The Marquise de Mora's child, a daughter, 
born here during the following year, died within a 
few months — a victim of the climate, it was said. 
Whether for this reason, or that he was not 
persona grata at St. James's, the Count applied for 
his recall, and returned to Madrid with his family in 
January 1762. Here Mora experienced his first 
passion, falling a victim to the charms of the cele- 
brated actress Mariquita Ladvenant, a lady whose 
talent, beauty, and adventures were at this time 
diverting the Castilians as much as her pious and 
repentant end edified them at a later date. The 
young man made so little attempt to conceal this 
attachment that the lady's titular protector, the Due 
de Villa Hermosa, conceived himself outraged, and 
the consequent quarrel created such scandal that the 
families of Aranda and Fuentes considered it neces- 
sary to intervene. They therefore secured him a 
colonelcy and packed him off to his new command 



DEATH OF MARQUISE DE MORA 245 

in the Galician regiment then quartered at Sara- 
gossa. His father was, at the same time, appointed 
ambassador at Paris. 

Luis Gonzaga, Mora's son, was born on August 
25, 1764, and the bells were still ringing in honour 
of the event when, almost without warning, and 
making little more noise in her dying than she had 
in life, the Marquise passed quietly away. She was 
little mourned, and forgotten as quickly. Countess 
d'Aranda took charge of the child, and Mora, obtain- 
ing leave, proceeded forthwith to join his father in 
Paris. Widower and father at the age of twenty, 
neither event seemingly made any real impression 
on his character, and the wits of Madrid were quick 
to apply to him the popular song — 

" I saw her at Mass on Sunday, 
Sent her a message o' Monday, 
Wedded her safe on the Tuesday, 
Gave her a drubbing, Wednesday ; 
She lay abed on Thursday ; 
Houselled she was on Friday ; 
Saturday saw her where dead she lay, 
And buried and done with on Sunday : — 
Sure, but than I is none cleverer. 
In one week boy, married, and widower ! " 

Mora reached the Spanish Embassy in Paris, then 
the old Hotel Soyecourt in Rue de I'Universite, at 
the close of October, and was quartered with the two 
secretaries, Fernando Magallon and the Due de Villa 
Hermosa — the latter his sometime rival for the graces 
of Mariquita Ladvenant. The trio were quickly 
close friends, and his comrades soon introduced the 
young Marquis to their numerous Parisian acquaint- 



246 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

ance. Magallon's name is now known thanks only 
to the letters of his friend and admirer, Abbe Galiani. 
He was a man of some parts but no high character, 
and an assiduous frequenter of Encyclopaedist circles. 
** Don Juan Pablo," Due de Villa Hermosa, was a 
more serious personage, whose wealth and birth 
enabled him to figure no less freely in Paris than in 
Madrid. He prided himself on a knowledge of 
French literature, and Voltaire recommended his 
translation of a work by Balthasar Gracian to the 
Academy, whose plaudits he duly received. 

These comrades were of social service to Mora, 
but he would have been welcomed by Parisian 
society in any case, thanks to his family's position, 
for since the conclusion of the Family Compact,^ 
the Spanish ambassador had been in great honour 
at Court. Louis XV, indeed, invariably placed a 
suite at the disposal of Count de Fuentes, in 
whatever palace he might be ; and while other 
diplomatists must await the Tuesday audiences for 
a hearing, he need only appear and all doors swung 
wide open. A familiar friend of the Royal Family, 
the Queen and her daughters were wont to make 
daily requisition from his cook of certain delectable 
Spanish dishes, while his failure to appear one night 
at the Royal supper caused Louis to send a messen- 
ger to inquire into the cause of his absence, and to 
" lecture the Count " soundly next morning for the 
anxiety that he had caused. " It would be difficult 
to describe Fuentes' position in Paris," the Due de 

^ Concluded in 1761, to guarantee the possessions of all Bourbon 
powers. 



COUNTESS DE FUENTfeS 247 

Villa Hermosa writes in his journal. " The Queen 
asserts that his departure cannot be thought of, as 
she intends always to keep him near her person. 
The King cannot do without him. He can please 
himself in everything, for, do what he will, no one 
ever raises an objection." His charm as a man 
won him the favour of every lady at Court, and 
the Encyclopaedia found the ambassador " one of 
the most enlightened men of his day and of his 
country." 

Countess de Fuentes cleverly supported her 
husband's popularity, for although she was already 
a victim of the disease which was presently to kill 
her, she bore its pangs with the extraordinary 
species of heroism that the love of pleasure teaches 
some women. But love "bigwigs" as she might, 
she was able enough to welcome men of letters, and 
her credit was increased by the general belief that 
she was the first who recognised the intellect and 
prophesied the brilliant future of the nameless, 
friendless, and moneyless Rivarol,^ when he came 
to seek his fortune in Paris. Taking him under her 
protection, and singing his praises on all sides, she 
soon launched on the salons the young man whose 
matchless conversation was presently, and for long 
years, to be one of their chiefest attractions. 

Mora could scarcely have found a readier wel- 
come than as the son of this couple, and he was 
shortly quite a fashion in that paradoxical and con- 
tradictory world where laxest morality went hand in 
hand with the loftiest ideas, the seriousness of which 

^ Antoine, Count de Rivarol, 1753-1801. 



248 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

was only to be equalled by the frivolous expression 
given to them, while their factitious brilliance was 
the admiration of a world. Versailles first, then 
Paris, were full of his name, although it is only fair 
to record that — witness the many notes still possessed 
by his family — the young man's earlier triumphs 
were distinctly such as accorded with his youth. If 
the world had conspired to heal this precocious 
widower's wounds, devoted consolers could not have 
arisen in greater numbers. They were not re- 
pulsed, and Mora's conduct for a time was such as 
to give grounds for the idea that he would be con- 
tented with such perishable laurels. But if his 
blood was hot, his temper was also high. He 
dreamed great dreams, and satiety came hotfoot 
with fierce disgust in its train. Thenceforward he 
might be young in years, but his tastes were serious, 
and literary gatherings, philosophical debates, and 
the study of the great problems already agitating 
men's minds, claimed him, despite the world and 
its lures. 

A note thanking Condorcet for the loan of a 
manuscript at about this time points this change : 
" You speak with such unhappy truth on the fate of 
humanity, that it would be difficult to overpraise 
either the work or the man that so labours on 
behalf of the oppressed. But the eyes of the foes 
of truth are keen, and it must be kept from their 
view. You may count on my absolute discretion 
in this. If the world might share my hatred of 
tyrants and persecutors, such secrecy would be 
enedless, and we should all enjoy the inestimabel 



JULIE MEETS M. DE MORA 249 

benefits of freedom. But man is not made for 
freedom. His foolishness and his follies bind him 
under the yoke of slavery." Such language is 
strange at two-and-twenty, and hardly that of a 
coxcomb of the boudoirs ; and we need not wonder 
that philosophical circles were quick to watch a 
young stranger who, speaking their own tongue 
perfectly, argued with warm yet restrained elo- 
quence ; was enthusiastic, yet did not forget the 
sense of proportion ; and had all the assurance 
of conviction, but knew how to temper it with 
modesty. 

Contemporaries paint Mora's portrait for us in 
some such colours as these, and — a matter of far 
higher interest to us — it was in this sort that he 
appeared to Julie on the day of their first chance 
meeting. Moving as both did in the same circles, 
the encounter was bound to occur, and the only 
astonishment possible in the matter is due to its 
late occurrence, for it is not until December 1766, 
that Julie writes to d'Holbach : " I want to tell 
you about something which fills my thoughts just 
now — a new acquaintance who possesses my brain, 
and I would add, my heart, if you did not deny me 
that organ." Her portrait of the young Spaniard 
demonstrates the deep impression that he made 
upon her from the first. "His face, full of kindly 
sympathy, imposes confidence and friendship. His 
character is gentle and attractive without being 
weak. He is an enthusiast, yet self-contained ; 
well-balanced, yet full of qualities and intuition. 
And, his heart! . . . His every motion expresses 



250 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

the innate virtue to which his discourse bears witness, 
and of which his acts are the ensample." And so 
she continues in this strain, vaunting now the modest 
self-suppression, now the naturalness, loyalty, and 
sincerity of him who seems to have conquered her 
at first sight. " One can always see to the bottom 
of his soul, and he always thinks highly enough of 
those he loves, or loves them well enough, to con- 
sider that any artificiality would be as much beneath 
them as it would be beneath himself. In a word, I 
find in this man my idea of perfection." 

This is surely the Julie of a romantic imagina- 
tion, nourished on dreams and visions, whose ideal 
— impossible hero ! — has suddenly become concrete 
in human form, and whose supreme beauty knows 
neither fault nor blemish. This is the secret master 
of her hopes from girlhood upward. He has forced 
her head in a moment, and, fight as she will, her 
heart surrenders fast. "Ah! If you could know 
how this true soul calls to mine ! " Yet, thus far, 
she refuses to acknowledge defeat. Young passion 
covers itself in the accustomed veil. " I would not 
stop here if he were not a man, for do not imagine 
that my liking goes near to love." 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse probably believes 
that this protestation is justified, for if an experienced 
woman shall often hardly distinguish between warm 
friendship and the first flame of the consuming fire, 
how much darker is the problem for a passionate 
and inexperienced creature whose most unequivocal 
sentiments so often soar on wings of rhapsody ? 
Julie was probably not long deceived, even though 



MORA LEAVES PARIS 251 

the time in which she could sift her feelings was 
short indeed. The letter quoted above is dated 
December 29, 1766; within the fortnight Mora's 
face was turned towards home. 

Mora left Paris thanks to a vulgar family quarrel. 
His relatives combined to press upon him the 
necessity of remarriage, and they were the more 
insistent because a distant cousin, Felicite d'Egmont 
Pignatelli — a beauty, rich, and of the highest birth — 
was at this time prepared to take a husband. The 
young man, however, declined to hear reason, finding 
his new liberty too precious to be hampered by any 
bond, however golden. He met every argument 
with this plea, and there is no reason to doubt its 
reality, or to suppose that it covered any thought of 
Julie. But his obstinate resistance provoked violent 
family scenes, and, nowise sorry to have the genuine 
excuse that his leave had expired, Mora hastened 
back to Madrid, where an "enthusiastic reception" 
awaited his return. 

Castilian society was curiously unsettled at this 
time. Spaniards had begun to travel, and to inter- 
marry with the French aristocracy. Their authors 
were also translating the most notable works of the 
new philosophy, and the combination of these in- 
fluences had awakened them to the new ideas. The 
mere hall-mark of Parisian origin now became the 
signal for strange enthusiasm, and certain authors, 
Diderot, Jean Jacques Rosseau, and Voltaire were 
lauded to the skies by men who had never looked 
between the covers of one of their works. A 
"pilgrimage" to Ferney conferred a patent of the 



252 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

highest intellect. Men whose sole pursuits had 
been hunting, dancing, the gambling-tables, or 
corridas, suddenly found themselves qualified to 
revise the national morals or laws, declared them- 
selves humanitarians and enemies to superstition, 
and convinced champions of the " diffusion of the 
new gospel." "Toleration" was all the fashion; 
"free-thought" was **the last thing." Much of all 
this was plainly superficial — the shallowest veneer, 
which never touched the radical obstinacy and con- 
servatism of the nation. But, such as it was, the 
movement was afoot, and Mora, an eloquent and 
clever young man, newly returned from a " furious 
success in Encyclopaedist salons'^ became the inevit- 
able focus of its enthusiasms. 

Mora's compatriots, indeed, convinced that here 
was the man who should renew the faded glories of 
Castile, fell upon him as "the miracle of his country," 
"the greatest of all Spain's great." Abbe Galiani 
has recorded the strength of this idea in a letter 
written when, but a few years later, the untimely death 
of the young Marquis had allowed men to read the 
measure of these hopes in the violence of the regrets 
that followed their fall. "Destiny rules all our 
affairs, and Spain was worthy of but one Monsieur 
de Mora. Perhaps this fact will influence the whole 
order of the fall of our monarchies." And, again : 
" There are lives on which hang the destinies of 
Empires. Our eyes now behold a false appearance 
of light, but Spain will not be as France for Mora 
were not now dead had the eternal order so planned 
it." Such enthusiasm seems strange to-day, or we 



MORA IN MADRID 253 

lack its most elementary justification, for of all 
Mora's vast correspondence, or his rare manu- 
scripts, a few personal letters have alone been 
preserved. Yet, that he excited it remains clear, 
and where every contemporary proclaims it — 
Italians and Frenchmen no less than Spaniards — 
posterity must needs believe that the object of so 
much praise was certainly a man of some work. 

Madrid rejoiced in Mora, but the Marquis felt 
less pleasure in Madrid. He was vaguely troubled, 
and a few notes of the period confess to the 
"melancholy" and "invincible sadness" that haunt 
him since his return from Paris, and as a relief to 
which he turned to the pursuit of letters. These 
works do not seem to have been unduly heavy judg- 
ing from their titles — more we do not know of them 
— a rhymed elegy on the late decease of Mariquita 
Ladvenant, and certain heroi-comic verses on a 
friend's love affair. This latter, Abbe Casalbon, 
was a strange figure. An unfrocked Jesuit, erudite 
humanist and elegant writer, he was always star- 
ving, and a shameless parasite of the Madrileno 
grandees ; paid his dinner with a sonnet, sold his 
pen to the highest bidder ; and his fiery eloquence 
was ever ready to champion the strongest or richest 
side in any quarrel, private or political. This man 
the Marquis employed to translate, or rather adapt, 
one of those works of Richardson which were at 
this time drawing tears from every pretty eye in 
Paris. That author was notoriously a favourite 
with Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, and the young 
man's eagerness to submit " Sir Charles Grandison " 



254 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

to the judgment of his compatriots was no doubt 
partly due to his recent intercourse with that 
lady. 

Don Pablo Olavida was at this time leader of 
one of the most notable salons in Madrid. Some- 
time intendant of Seville, this man was now a 
dabbler in letters and a professed Voltairian. He 
was also extremely rich and a lavish entertainer, 
and in this quality added to his hotel a splendid 
theatre, in which the fine flower of Madrid nobility 
was used to act Voltaire in his own translated ver- 
sions. Mora was his frequent guest, and the most 
admired as he was the most frequent contributor 
to the regular weekly discussions on literature which 
took place in this theatre. He presently consented 
to become a member of the company, playing the 
part of lover to its star, Dofia Mariana de Silva, 
widow of the Due de Huescar, a lady commonly 
surnamed the Acad^micienne, on account of her 
facility in divers literary and artistic pursuits. 
"The Duchesse de Huescar writes perfectly with 
either hand, composes excellent verses, and trans- 
lates tragedies and many other works from the 
French." This gifted lady was also a draughts- 
man and a painter, and certain of her pictures were 
exhibited with such success that she was named 
honorary president of the Royale SociH'e de Pein- 
ture. " And to all these acquired gifts she joined 
the innate charms of beauty, grace, and sweet 
conversation." 

This intimacy of th eboards induced the inevitable 
sequel. " Having a thousand times exchanged * I 



DEATH OF MORA'S SON 255 

love you's,' the pair began to believe it and so to 
feel it." Mora was apparently no serious victim, 
and he certainly was not permanently hit. The 
Duchesse, on the contrary, adored him, gave notice 
to her court of admirers for good and all, and hid 
her passion so little that all Madrid was presently 
afire with the story. The whisper soon reached 
Paris and excited the Fuentes family, for the 
Duchesse's sole dowry would be her beauty and her 
talents. And she was Mora's senior by only four 
years. To break the charm, the ambassador exer- 
cised all his credit to get his son's regiment ordered 
away from Madrid. It was quartered in Catalonia, 
and its young Colonel followed without an objec- 
tion, unresisting, and with exemplary obedience. 
A love affair could pass the time, but he was 
scheming for no less than renewed leave and a 
return to Paris. Gregorio Munian, Minister for 
War, was, however, a martinet who turned a deaf 
ear to all his pleas. Mora was in despair, when an 
unhappy event beat down all barriers to his desire. 
His little son, aged barely three, died suddenly of 
the small-pox on July 5, 1767. 

The terrible effect of this blow on Mora's sensi- 
tive nature is apparent in his letters to the Due de 
Villa Hermosa, his best friend. His only thought 
now is to fly to his parents, and in their affection 
forget his trouble and his bruises. The military 
authorities gave ready consent, but grave questions 
were at issue with the Aranda family, and, detained 
by these, his spirit alternated between bitter dis- 
couragem.ent and fevered impatience. "You should 



256 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

know," he writes to the Due, "what reasons these 
are which must keep me here at present, and will 
perhaps deprive me of the one possible joy after my 
bitter loss ! . . . When everything was arrayed 
against me, I only needed to be robbed of the 
consolation of embracing my parents, brothers, and 
friends — all that I care most for in this world ! 
There would be so much relief in that : it would so 
help me to fight this overwhelming melancholy. I 
assure you that I have lived through bitter days of 
late. How I have missed you ! What consolation 
I could have found in your company ! " 

The Duchesse de Huescar's name seems to have 
vanished from Mora's distracted mind. But if she 
does not appear in these letters, he is very apparent 
in the elegies, seguedillas^ and harmonious com- 
plaints with which she solaces her furious and 
lamentable disappointment until — and that at no 
such distant date — his faithlessness is overlaid by 
the willing return of her numerous earlier admirers. 
Moreover, seven years later, and only thirteen 
months after the decease of the Countess de Fuentes, 
she married the Count, and so sat in the place of 
her who had beforetime declined to receive herself 
as daughter-in-law — a sequel which robs her of any 
claim to our sympathy with her shattered illusions. 

* Casalbon remarks in a letter, " She has been bled twice, but this 
wretch of a Mora has filled her with such ideas that nothing serves 
to divert her mind. So she fills her days with seguedillas on absence 
and inconstancy, and says that Diocletian clearly knew nothing of 
such a method of torture, or he would never have troubled to invent 
others." 



CHAPTER X 

Changed opinions of Mora — His ill-health and discouragement — Similar 
ailments of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Violent outburst of mutual 
passion — Initial excitement of both — Mora visits Ferney, and is warmly 
received by Voltaire on d'Alembert's introduction — Return to Paris and 
resumption of the romance — Platonic character of the connection — Pro- 
jected marriage with Julie — Mora, recalled to the Spanish army, hands in 
his papers, but is taken seriously ill and sent to Valentia — Violent excite- 
ment of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Consequent disappointment of 
d'Alembert — He travels for two months — Sudden return of Mora to 
Paris — Renewed passion, and relapse of Mora — His father insists on his 
leaving France — Painful parting of the lovers. 

Late in October, the last difficulties cleared away, 
the Marquis de Mora hastened to Paris, and was 
soon installed in his old apartment in the hotel in 
Rue de I'Universite. But the being who now occu- 
pied them was very different from him who had 
gone out thence a bare twenty months earlier : then 
he was joyous and " petulant," overflowing with 
vigour and life, and a curious seeker after all things 
new ; now he was but the vague ghost of that 
former self. Suffering had outrun time in the work- 
ing of this change, and the germs of his family's 
hereditary scourge had possibly seconded both. His 
letters show us a man who is broken and tired ; who 
nourishes no more illusions, and doubts all things, 
even to himself. " But there is no remedy," he 
adds, having concluded a confession of his feelings, 
" and this dwelling on dolorous subjects can only 
revive their pain. I was born unhappy ; to that 
lot I incline me. Ah ! if I might have the consola- 



258 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

tion of seeing all those who belong to me happy, 
on their joy my joys might hang! . . . Friend, 
mine years be few, yet where is the man, no matter 
his age, whose experience of this life is harder or 
more varied than has been my own ! I think that 
I know it : I know that I think little of it." Doubt 
and cynicism join hands with this disgust. " Our 
Jorge" [younger brother of the Due de Villa Her- 
mosa] " does not forget to amuse himself at Madrid, 
and he does well. After all, what is there which 
counts for more — in this world ? " 

Whether or no Mora's health was responsible for 
this temper, it certainly gives cause for anxiety from 
henceforth. The letters of his relatives are full of 
remarks on his pale face and lack of flesh, and already 
in November he himself complains to Villa Her- 
mosa : "You had not been gone an hour before I 
was taken with a dizzy fit, and so with high fever 
which lasted all night. Consequently, I am alto- 
gether limp — half dead, in fact." Such incidents, 
presently accompanied by haemorrhage, now became 
alarmingly frequent. 

There is a remarkable analogy between the 
feeling in these brief fragments and Julie's temper 
during the same period. She also is tried, finds that 
life has no savour, is without profit or motive ; yet 
avowedly plunges into all its follies, seeking dis- 
traction and secretly afraid that it may not come. 
Such, surely, is the confession of these lines, ad- 
dressed to an unknown friend: "When I was young, 
I surrendered blindly to my sensibilities, until I 
thought that they must cost me my life, as they did 



HER DISCONTENT 259 

cost me my health. In this way I won at last to a 
calmer and sweeter spirit, understanding that life 
need not be intolerable if only we will amuse and 
distract ourselves, and cling to nothing overmuch. 
This, dear Baron, is the secret of my life — the life 
which, you say, is that of one whose heart is dissi- 
pated. Do you really think that I was created to 
pursue amusement? that, if reason has told me to 
pursue its courses, my heart is always content with 
them ? . . . Ah ! if you knew the price that I have 
paid, you would not doubt that the letters of Heloise 
affected me to actual physical hurt." 

This sincere confession provides a key with 
which to read Julie's life, to understand with what 
feverish desire she seeks to substitute the things of 
the mind for the motions of her passionate tempera- 
ment and secret aspirations. The salons, literature, 
society — all become distasteful only too soon, and 
she leaves them, weary and disgusted, to come back 
to her original hunger for love, for sacrifice, self- 
surrender, and suffering. Let her strive to be con- 
tent with that which she may have ; to be satisfied, 
like the sage, with lesser pleasures and moderate 
joys — her violent nature overbears reason, and 
revolts against the victual wherewith it may nowise 
be filled. In other times she might have turned to 
the sweet consolations of piety, have satiated her 
aspirations with the passion of the spirit. These 
are not for her, or for her age. For her, as for it, 
comfort does not wait below the steps of the altar, 
nor may prayer warm an atmosphere which is as an 
icy cloak about her being. One remedy, she vaguely 



26o JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

feels, might assuage her woe — love as she sees it in 
the volumes which her eyes devour — the love of high 
passion and mad follies ; the passionate love which 
is to the woman of her day all religion as all of 
morality ; the creed which she shall presently cele- 
brate in language as dithyrambic as any inspired 
prophet standing before his sole god. " Ah ! how 
high is this love! how sublime! Thee, love, I honour, 
thee I celebrate, as very virtue 1 " 

Intercourse between persons of thus similar char- 
acters, and so prepared for mutual comprehension, 
could not tarry long at the confines of friendship, 
nor is there reason to suppose that it did so even 
if their hearts did not beat in unison at the first 
moment of new meeting. Mora, on the point of 
leaving Madrid, answered to a jesting word from 
Villa Hermosa : " I cannot imagine what fair ladies 
you say await my return to Paris. I do not know 
myself beholden to any one there, so please believe 
that your presence will not annoy me with whomso- 
ever you find me." Julie, on the contrary, was wont 
to date her soul's rejuvenescence from the time when 
first she knew Mora. "Eight years ago I drew 
back from the world," she wrote to Guibert on 
October 9th, 1774. "From the moment that I 
loved, its successes meant nothing to me." And 
in 1772, on the eve of the last parting, she was even 
more explicit : " Six years of joy and heavenly 
rapture are enough, even in the midst of despair, 
to make one thank the Lord who made us ! " We 
need not read into this passage that Julie loved 
Mora two years before he responded. Her ardent 



MORA'S LOVE FOR HER 261 

imagination was perfectly capable of crowning with 
a retrospective halo days in which there was still no 
more than a vague and tender attraction, as between 
two good friends. But whatever the truth in regard 
to the past, the couple no sooner met again than 
passion leaped to life. Their souls greeted each 
other until nature did but exist in the other's eyes, 
all else being lost, even to almost complete oblivion 
of the disparity between their ages. " When I 
spoke of this great natural disparity in years, I hurt 
him until he had soon persuaded me that as we 
loved, so we were equals. . . . He saw my soul 
and knew its passion, and then he cared little for 
pride of such a kind." It seems, indeed, that Julie's 
fiery spirit opened a new world to this young man 
of twenty-four, notwithstanding the opportunities for 
other conquests which the world had thrust upon 
him. For her he forsook all earlier interests ; 
philosophy, literature, political ambition no longer 
exercised their old appeal. "Ah!" Julie will cry 
at thought of this, "I surely have understood the 
whole price of life, for I was loved indeed ! A 
soul of fire, overflowing with energy ; which had 
judged all and appreciated all, and which, turning 
in disgust from all, abandoned itself to the need 
and pleasure of love . . . thus he loved me ! ' 
All witnesses attest that this language does no 
more than state the truth. Even Marmontel, 
sceptic that he is, rises to the language of passion 
at sight of this. "We often saw him in adoration 
before her ! " 

But if this were Mora's case, Julie's transfigura- 



262 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

tion is hardly to be described. She seems as it 
were to discover her true nature, and for the first 
time to be aware of what she is. A new bloom 
obscures past shadows, and life offers itself in a robe 
of colours heretofore unguessed. The real beginning 
of the Memoirs which she commenced, but which 
have perished, would date from this period, "as 
though her life had not seemed begun until they 
met." In the factitious atmosphere of the salons 
where, she smartly said, most Parisian women '* are 
content with a preference, having no need of * to be 
loved,' " the storm which fell upon her reft away all 
borrowings, and all those conventional masks that 
not even her honesty had completely escaped, and 
revealed to sight the real woman, the human creature 
always apparent in moments of real crisis. Once 
Julie loves, she becomes the woman who was to 
write to Guibert : " I have for you a feeling wherein 
is the principle, and which has all the effects, of all 
the virtues — indulgence, kindness, generosity, con- 
fidence, surrender, utter abnegation of all personal 
interests. All this I am by the sole thought of your 
love for me. But give me a doubt, and my soul, 
turned upon itself, makes me crazy." Henceforth 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse lives only for her con- 
queror, and the interest of all her interests exists 
only by their connection with him. The charming 
phrase which one day dropped from her pen is 
probably to be derived from Mora far more than 
from his successor : " You seem to have a right over 
every motion and every feeling in my soul. I owe 
you account of every thought, nor does a thought 



MORA RECALLED 263 

seem mine until the sharing it with you has won me 
a right therein." 

In raptures of this kind, untroubled by a single 
shadow, the couple spent the winter and spring of 
1768. Long years afterwards, Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse still remembered it as the most delightful 
period in all her life. It suffered the usual curtail- 
ment of all things idyllic. Mora's leave expired at 
the close of May, and he was also pledged to make 
the inescapable pilgrimage to Ferney with his in- 
separable friend, Villa Hermosa — a pilgrimage now 
the absolute duty of all followers of the new doctrine. 
Julie was far from opposing a project so consonant 
with her creed ; but much as this disinterestedness 
cost her, it was also to involve her best friend. 
Women deeply in love are often unconsciously 
cruel, and Julie certainly inflicted pain when she 
charged d'Alembert to see that Mora received from 
the Master the attention which, in her eyes, was his 
clear due. 

The philosopher obeyed with grace, and even 
exerted himself more than need have been necessary; 
becoming in this a spectacle at once pathetic, sad- 
dening, and almost comic — a fact unfortunately too 
often observable in his attitude towards the affairs 
of her for whom his heart was so fond. Had he 
been Julie's husband in fact he could not, indeed, 
have more fully justified the traditional blindness of 
such. Because his heart is fixed, his constancy proof 
against all, his devotion tireless, therefore is his 
friend as sure as himself, and the eye of very day 
incapable of seeing any duplicity in her word or 



264 -JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

deed. Deeply versed as he is in philosophy, 
d'Alembert was yet to learn that love cannot be 
bought by any service, and that sentiment is bound_ 
by no duties except such as it creates for itself. He 
is incapable of supposing that any newcomer can 
possess himself of the heritage which he has so 
richly deserved, and the visible passion of Mademoi- 
selle de Lespinasse seems to him no more than the 
expression of her sympathies, a temporary fancy or 
simple friendship. So impossible was it for him to 
understand her as she was, that his "Portrait" of 
her, written in 1771, contains the remarkable charge 
that her chief fault is coldness of heart : '* The fault 
with which I might reproach you — and I do but 
whisper it in your ear — is that you are ignorant of 
the meaning of passion." 

D'Alembert did not escape the contagion of 
Mora's popularity. The letter sent to Voltaire 
at Julie's instance confesses this : " Dear and old 
friend, I have somewhat to ask of you, and I 
sincerely trust that you will not refuse my request. 
. . . There is here a young Spaniard of high birth 
and the highest merit, a son of his country's am- 
bassador to the Court of France, and son-in-law of 
Count d'Aranda who expelled the Jesuits. You 
now perceive my young man's credentials, but these 
are in no sense his only merits. I have seen few 
foreigners of his age with a better sense of pro- 
portion, a clearer head, more enlightened or more 
cultivated. He is young, a noble, and a Spaniard, 
but I do not exaggerate. He is about to return to 
Spain, and you need not wonder that, after what I 



VOLTAIRE RECEIVES MORA 265 

have said, he is anxious first to see and to talk with 
you. ... I will wager that after his visit you will only 
thank me for this introduction. ... A young foreigner 
of this kind makes me blush for our native puppies ! " 

Voltaire's reply was couched in the tone to be 
expected. A grandee of Spain, Mora's other quali- 
fications apart, was no such daily visitor at Ferney 
that the idea of his homage should not please " the 
patriarch," and Mora, with Villa Hermosa, left Paris 
on April 26th, assured of a ready welcome when their 
journey should end at Geneva. The parting with 
Julie was sad, but where is the need of anguish when 
two people are conscious of mutual love, and have 
absolute faith in each other's vows of fidelity ? Each 
was, further, assured that the parting could be of no 
long duration, even should Mora buy his ability to 
return by resigning his commission. He was, it 
seems, pledged to this step, did it prove necessary. 

Forty-eight hours later, the travellers alighted 
at Ferney, in their hands a second letter from the 
zealous d'Alembert. This was, if possible, even 
more enthusiastic than the first. " Monsieur the 
Marquis de Mora is good enough to carry this letter, 
although he will require no introduction when once 
you have spoken a few words with him. You will 
find him a man after your own pattern in heart 
and spirit alike — upright, clear, sensible, cultivated, 
and enlightened, in no way pedantic or dull. Mon- 
sieur the Due de Villa Hermosa, his travelling 
companion, is one with him in deserving to see 
you as in desiring so to do. I have told you that 
you will thank me for the pleasure of this visit. 



266 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

You will also congratulate Spain on the possession 
of such sons, and you will only wish that our nobles 
were on their model instead of on that of our 
Conseillers de Cour, imbeciles and barbarians, our 
dancing girls and our Opera Comique." . . . 
Which Voltaire received visitors thus introduced 
needs no telling. He showed himself, as he well 
knew how, the kindest of hosts, the most charming 
of men. He never left them during the three entire 
days for which he detained them, and all the while 
he mingled his sagest talk with the most daring 
humours, lavishing his astonishing spirit and his 
incomparable facility. 

The young men departed lost in admiration, 
while the sage declared himself charmed in turn, 
and he found it necessary to proclaim their praises 
by answering d'Alembert's letter on the very day 
of their departure. " May the Being of beings 
pour favour upon His favourite d'Aranda, His 
dearest Mora, and His well-beloved Villa Hermosa ! 
A new day dawns upon the Iberians, for whom the 
custom-house of thought no longer bars the way 
to truth as for the Welsh. ^ The claws are cut 
for the monster of the Inquisition. . . ." Voltaire 
repeats the same tone when he writes to his re- 
gular correspondents, the Marquis de Villevieille, 
d'Argental, Dupont, and Pasteur Jacob Vernes. 
To all these he makes especial mention of the visit, 
and ' emphatically proclaims his faith in Mora's 
glorious future. " He is a young man of the rarest 

^ Welche or Velche. Originally any uncouth or ignorant alien, 
e.g. the Welsh (Celts generally). For use here, cf. Matthew Arnold's 
Philistines. 



MORA RETURNS TO PARIS 267 

merit. You will probably see him as he passes, 
and he will astonish you. ... I pray you see to 
it that he is presently admitted to the Ministry 
(in Spain), and I'll warrant that he will ably 
second Count d'Aranda in bringing a new era 
to his country." 

Voltaire's enthusiasm led him astray on one 
point at least. Mora had little desire, at this time, 
either "to give Spain free access to all the good 
books wherein man may acquire a hatred of fana- 
ticism," or " to file the teeth of this monster, the 
Inquisition"; for his head was fully occupied with 
the one thought of how he might devise means for 
returning to Paris and Julie. Thus, after the two 
friends separated at Geneva, the diplomat to re- 
turn to Paris, the colonel to Madrid, the latter had 
scarcely taken up his duties than he began a vain 
siege of the Ministry for War which, at the end of 
several months, still resisted all his applications for 
fresh leave. He had not, however, decided to take 
the final step and hand in his papers, when family 
affairs once more secured his liberty. Despite their 
disparity in years — she was but sixteen and he 
nearly forty — a lively attachment existed between 
Villa Hermosa and Mora's sister, Maria Manuela 
Pignatelli. Mora was only too pleased to press his 
friend's suit, and the marriage was solemnised on 
June I, 1769, in the palace of Count d'Aranda, who 
stood proxy for the husband, detained at the Em- 
bassy in Paris. Mora stood witness for his sister, 
and the special occasion gained him permission to 
start next day Tor Paris, there to deliver the bride 



268 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

to her husband. The journey was made in state — 
with four carriages and fifteen horsemen for escort 
— and after eighteen days upon the road, the arrival 
of brother and sister at Paris on June 20th, added 
four joyful hearts to the city's tale. 

The days which followed the new meeting of 
Julie and Mora were the golden age in both their 
lives. Separation may cool an affection which is less 
than absolute ; theirs had triumphed over distance. 
Earlier moments might have yielded more tumul- 
tuous bliss ; there was added to these days that sense 
of security and happy pride which is born of the 
certification that all is indeed well. It was, none 
the less, those earlier raptures that Julie was so 
passionately to celebrate at a later time : " . . . the 
most charming and perfect of all creatures . . .," 
"he who alone taught me real joy . . .," to whom 
she owed it that "for some few moments I knew 
how priceless life may be." " I was loved," she 
cries then, " in a way beyond reach of imagination. 
All passions whereof I have read were feeble and 
cold beside this of Monsieur de Mora. It filled his 
life. Think if it filled mine ! " And when she 
answers for the manner in which she repaid this love 
to "this strong soul, impassioned for the pleasure of 
being loved," she puts these words in the mouth of 
him who is then dead : " Comparing the loves of 
which he had been, and yet was, the recipient, he 
would ceaselessly say : ' They surely are not worthy 
to become your scholars. Your soul was warmed 
by the sun of Lima ; my countrywomen are as if 
they were born under the glaciers of Lapland.* " 



PLATONIC PASSION 269 

Such violent expression of violent emotion must 
raise the delicate problem whether or no this friend- 
ship between two thus ardent hearts, both free, both 
emancipated from the thraldom of conscience, and 
disdaining social conventions, can have remained 
platonic Most modern biographers deny that there 
can be a doubt upon the point — even forgetting that 
Julie was afterwards the mistress of Guibert. This 
argument need not hold good, nor do I believe in 
the correctness of this verdict. For not only did 
no single one of Julie's contemporaries suspect 
her relations with Mora, but the one compiler of 
memoirs who alludes to the matter specifically affirms 
that these relations were purely platonic. Madame 
Suard records that " The story of her connection 
with Monsieur de Mora she both wrote of, and 
confided to, Monsieur Suard, who had her permis- 
sion to tell me. I can affirm that letters and con- 
versation formed all the communication which ever 
these two had one with the other." 

Final as this statement seems, Julie's own con- 
duct at this time seems only more so. In Guibert's 
case Julie errs on the side of overmuch precaution 
and mystery : she cannot sufficiently display her 
connection with Monsieur de Mora. She speaks 
of him — "glorying in it," says Madame de la 
Ferte Imbault — in conversation with, and in letters 
to, her intimates — Suard, Condorcet, even to some 
of her woman friends ; and this until it becomes 
matter for common talk among them, while d'Alem- 
bert remains almost alone in declining to see more 
than mere friendship between the couple. Julie 



270 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

is equally open and lacking in self-consciousness 
where Mora's family is concerned. She sees them 
frequently, and receives them freely — Count de 
Fuentes, Luis Pignatelli, and Villa Hermosa. The 
one member of the family whom she has never met 
is the latter's wife, and this by no will of her own. 
" How I wish to know her! How gladly I would 
live with her ! " she writes. Mora consistently 
opposed this meeting, alleging a fear lest Julie's 
excitable spirit should work too much upon this 
morbid sister's excessive affection for himself; but 
the real reason seems to have been that this sister 
was jealous of Julie, and her brother consequently 
feared a scene. This young Duchesse apart, 
nothing could be more cordial than was the atti- 
tude of all the Fuentes family towards their son's 
friend. They send her daily bulletins when he is 
ill in Paris, and the same when he is dying at 
Madrid ; while, on the morrow of his death, the 
desolate father begs Julie to use all her influence 
with d'Alembert in order to persuade him to write 
the Memorial Portrait of this lost subject of all his 
hopes and ambitions. Everything, indeed, points 
to the fact that neither the family of Mora nor 
Julie's own friends ever doubted the real innocence 
of their relations. 

Little doubt as may now remain, this contention 
can still be supported by even stronger proofs in 
the form of certain passages taken from hitherto 
unpublished letters written by Julie to Guibert. 
Writing as she may write to the man to whom she 
has willingly and freely given herself, she calls him 



PLATONIC PASSION 271 

to witness that he alone, as the first, has triumphed 
over her long hesitations and honesty, and re- 
proaches him — with scant justice — of having brought 
upon her that remorse and self-disgust which, she 
says, are breaking her down. " That momentary 
folly crushes my life. To have kept my honesty 
until I knew you seems vain indeed, for what 
matters that which I have been, when I have been 
false to the right and to myself ; and, lost to my own 
good opinion, how can I pretend to yours ? Or, if 
you do not esteem me, how blind myself and believe 
in your love.'*" ... "I am become an object of 
scorn, and because I loved you. Because I gave 
it into your hands, you have doubted of my love, 
and as I sacrificed my honesty to you, so you have 
ceased to esteem me. All this is rightly the fruit 
and the price of abandoning virtue." Such lan- 
guage is scarcely open to two interpretations. The 
Julie who was truthful to tactlessness in her rela- 
tions with the man whom she loved, whose frank- 
ness risked the alienation of a heart dearer to her 
than her own life, is no woman to have stooped to 
so meanly useless a lie. 

This argument has not been set out in response 
to the somewhat vain temptation which besets a 
biographer the conduct of whose heroine has fallen 
short of the ideal, and whom he would therefore 
endeavour to whitewash. It seems, on the con- 
trary, to provide an explanation of certain things 
in the later career of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
that have not heretofore been clear, in especial — • 
though it is not as excusing it — of the act which 



272 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Julie was later to stigmatise as "her treason." 
Those who cannot credit a thus obstinate virtue on 
the part of so fiery and so emancipated a woman, 
are easily answered, and this without bringing into 
account the innate clinging to the letter of chastity, 
or that physical and moral repulsion to the final 
step which so many women find a stronger defence 
than all the pricks of conscience or the promptings 
of religion. With no desire to diminish her credit 
in the matter, less lofty motives and far more com- 
monplace ideas were the determining factors in her 
resistance. It is now established that, almost from 
the first days of their intimacy, this couple had 
thoughts of its natural sequel — marriage. This 
idea, so far from fading, grew day by day, and it 
was not for lack of the mutual resolution that Julie 
de Lespinasse did not become the Marquis de 
Mora's wife. 

Carefully as the couple guarded this secret, it 
was still suspected by more than one contemporary. 
The Memoir es de Marmontel contain a note to this 
effect, and the cynic proceeds to hint that Julie, more 
ambitious than loving, played her part in order to 
secure a brilliant match. Morellet, Marmontel's 
uncle, has left a note of energetic protest against 
this slander, which indeed requires no refutation. 
But while he asserts its falseness, he is equally 
explicit in respect of Julie's desire to be married. 
" And small harm in that," he adds, truly enough 
The whole affair would, none the less, remain con- 
jectural, were it not for the new documents to which 
I have had access. Thus Count Villeneuve Guibert 



PROJECTED MARRIAGE 273 

possesses a MS. note by Madame Guibert asserting 
that Mora's own brother, Luis Pignatelli, told her 
that they were engaged, and would have been 
married but for her faithlessness and my brother's 
death. Suard, in whom she confided, writes quite 
openly to her : " I would gladly have heard more 
of your affair, and learned the present state of 
your hopes. When shall I be able to congratu- 
late you ? You owe me good news, if only to 
console me for having suffered communication of 
the bad!" Julie herself refers to the fact most 
transparently in a letter to Guibert which there 
will presently be reason to quote. Finally, the 
family papers of the Due de Villa Hermosa con- 
tain numerous letters in which the Fuentes family 
freely express their disquiet at this intention of 
the heir of the house. 

The real truth of the matter seems to be that 
Mora was early anxious to have an open engage- 
ment, while Julie de Lespinasse was very creditably 
desirous that he should take time to consider the 
indubitable facts of her age, poverty, and illegiti- 
mate birth. But she was not too loth to be per- 
suaded, and when her lover continued to answer 
all objections with the simple formula, " Since we 
love, all is equal between us," she presently yielded. 
The Fuentes family, none too pleased at the pro- 
spect of which they were perfectly aware, although 
the Marquis never directly admitted them into his 
confidence, took the usual method of bodily deport- 
ing their son from the area of influence. Asserting 
that his always poor health was the worse for his 

s 



274 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

sojourn in Paris, they ordered him off to his regi- 
ment in Catalonia. Resistance was not to be 
thought of in a day when parental and military 
authority were equally binding, and he therefore 
obeyed without a murmur, though secretly deter> 
mined to secure independence at all costs. The 
spring of 1770 was thus occupied in arguments 
with his friends and his family, and the latter 
deemed that they had surely won when, two months 
after his return to Spain (April), the Marquis 
was gazetted General of Brigade at the age of 
twenty-six, and was further nominated to a post 
with the Court. " I was extremely pleased to hear 
the news," writes the Marquis de Castimente to his 
cousin, Villa Hermosa. " He has abilities above 
the ordinary, and they will now have an oppor- 
tunity for recognition." " I cannot say whether he 
is pleased," replies the excellent brother-in-law, 
*' but I can express my own pleasure, for his ability 
can hardly be overstated." 

These congratulations were short-lived, for only 
a brief while had passed before the young general 
cut short his brilliant prospects by formally sending 
in his papers. The alleged reason was poor health, 
only too true a plea ; but no one pretended to believe 
that this was more than an honourable pretext. 
Abbe Galiani was fain to comfort Villa Hermosa 
in this style : " I am sure that he has sent in his 
papers, because this was the worst thing he could 
do ! . . . But it's not philosophy, forwards or back- 
wards, which is responsible. However, no need to 
fear for his fortune, since he can blow it thirty times 



MORA'S RELAPSE 275 

and still find means to recover himself." The lover 
was further from thoughts of his "fortune" than 
anything else. Paris, and there to remain for ever 
with his lady, were his only ideas, and he spent 
the rest of the year wrestling with the remaining 
obstacles to the fulfilment of this — the real reason 
for which he had sought freedom. They had all 
yielded, and the day for his departure was fixed, 
when a new obstacle arose, more grave and more 
dangerous than all which had preceded it, in an 
attack such as he had never before experienced. 
On January 25, 1771, the Marquis was prostrated 
by violent blood-spitting, high fever, and a fainting 
fit so deep and so protracted that he was at one 
time believed gone beyond recall. He recovered ; 
but not so his plans, for the doctors asserted that 
both his lungs were failing. 

The sole possible remedy, they averred, was to 
winter in some such climate as that of Valencia, 
" one of the most delicious In Europe." Jorge 
Azbor Aragon, Villa Hermosa's younger brother, 
happened to be there, and to him Mora went with 
despair in his heart, notwithstanding the com- 
panionship of two devoted friends who insisted 
on accompanying him and his doctor, Navarro. 
The end of the journey found him in a state of 
collapse, but two months later Jorge Azbor was 
joyously telling his brother of the patient's almost 
miraculous recovery. " Mora is fatter and a pleas- 
anter spectacle than ever before ; but as his lungs 
have not entirely ceased to pain him, I think his 
father should veto his leaving here just yet." A 



276 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

subsequent report gives us a strange picture of 
contemporary medical opinion. *' It will please you 
to learn that Mora's strength increases daily ; so 
much so, that the doctors are considering whether 
they should not bleed him again, because, so long 
as there is pain in his lungs, too much vigour must 
prejudice a cure. ... I repeat, that he ought to 
remain here until his lungs are completely healed." 

Julie's anxiety, and sad alternations of hope and 
fear, during this period may be imagined. Indeed, 
as long as Mora was ill, the arrival of the bi-weekly 
post from Spain always brought this impressionable 
watcher a high fever, followed by "convulsions." 
None of the almost daily letters which now passed 
between them survive, but while the nature of their 
contents will not fall into doubt on this score, the 
following plea with which Julie accompanied one of 
Mora's compositions that she sent to Suard has its 
interest : "I have a certain hesitation in showing 
you this letter, for while it shows his real character 
it does scant justice to his intellect. He is a 
foreigner, and throws off these letters in the heat 
of the moment, so believe me that his brain is as 
good as his heart, and I felt this before I loved 
him." This line, written by a man (Guibert) who 
saw fragments of Julie's letters to Mora, may also 
be cited : " They had all the vivacity and ardours 
of her talk, and to receive them almost persuaded 
one that their lines were not written but were her 
proper speech." 

Mora's illness brought trouble to himself and to 
Julie, but d'Alembert possibly suffered yet more. 



JULIE'S DISTRACTION 277 

He lodged with her, and she was not a good master 
of her feelings in these days of anguished soul 
and body, excited days and sleepless nights. 
Her always uncertain temper grew daily worse, 
and was now plainly acid, if not spiteful ; now so 
miserable that she would pass days together before 
the fire, absorbed in silent contemplation of her 
woe. Rightly attributing all this to her anxiety 
for her friend, d'Alembert would attempt to help 
her by hastening to fetch his letter as each Spanish 
post fell due ; but in vain did he rise at dawn, or — 
man of clockwork regularity that he was — postpone 
his breakfast in order to curtail her vigil by a few 
moments. " There's not a wretched porter in this 
city," says Grimm, " who runs half as many weary 
errands as our First Geometrician in Europe, 
our Chief of the Encyclopaedists, the Arbiter of 
Academies, in his daily morning service for Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse." Julie thanked him, but 
was at once reabsorbed in her distracted reveries 
and icy despair. D'Alembert was almost morbidly 
sensitive, and, the more that he could not properly 
understand her reasons, he took this treatment so 
to heart that his always delicate health was under- 
mined by an attack of such acute sleeplessness as 
rendered him well-nigh incapable of work — his 
supreme consoler. His letters to Voltaire, Pere 
Paciaudi, and his other correspondents, are full of 
this unhappy state. He complains that he is weak, 
tired, and depressed ; his body useless and his head 
empty ; that he is silly with discouragement and 
sadness. "And who knows how lono- it will 



278 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

last ? I had rather be dead than continue to 
endure it." 

D'Alembert's laments were presently so justified 
by his condition, that the latter even forced itself 
on Julie's distressed vision. She was deeply sorry, 
and probably also remorseful. Conscious of her 
impotence, she appealed to Condorcet in a letter 
which breathes real anxiety for her devoted friend : 
" Come to my help, sir ! I conjure you to do this, 
for friendship's and your virtue's sake alike. Your 
friend. Monsieur d'Alembert, is in the most alarm- 
ing state. He is wasting enough to frighten one, 
does not sleep, and eats only because reason com- 
mands him so to do. Worse than all, he has fallen 
into the most frightful melancholia, and feeds his 
soul with grief and sadness. He has lost his 
activity, and has no will left. In a word, he must 
either die or be dragged out of this slough by main 
force." Julie's suggested remedy is the classical one 
of a tour in some fair land, with its enforced dis- 
tractions of new scenes and fresh surroundings. 
She presses this scheme by many arguments, and 
was probably unwittingly the more anxious to 
compass it on account of the relief which she would 
obtain were his temporarily importunate affection 
spared her, and herself free from this witness to 
her tears. **We have joined hands to persuade 
him to try a change of scene — a tour in Italy. 
He does not quite refuse, but he will never consent 
to go alone — not that I should wish him to do so. 
He has need of a friend's helping care, and these 
he must find in some one like yourself." Here 



ILL-HEALTH OF D'ALEMBERT 279 

follows a plan of campaign for overcoming his 
expected reluctance, and Julie insists that her 
share in all this must be kept secret. The sheet 
concludes with this postscript : " Monsieur d'Alem- 
bert has just surprised me over this letter, and I 
have confessed that it has to do with his Italian 
tour. He seems to have made up his mind. Here 
is your starting-point. Make haste to work from 
it. . . . Come, then, come ! or do not, at all events, 
think a thought or make a move except with this 
object in view." 

D'Alembert yielded, and Condorcet was ready 
to obey Julie's behest ; but here a more difficult 
obstacle had to be faced in lack of means for the 
journey, for the philosopher's purse was not deep 
enough for such a demand. At this juncture he 
remembered the royal friend whose help he had 
once disdained, and pocketing his pride, he wrote 
to Frederic the Great in terms which were almost 
those of a suppliant : " My health. Sire, fails daily, 
and, while I cannot cope with even the lightest 
work, I am eternally sleepless and too terribly 
depressed. My friends and the doctors unani- 
mously advise me that the Italian tour is my last 
hope. Sire, my poverty refuses me this remedy, 
and yet it is all that stands between me and the 
prospect of a slow and cruel death. ... I am told 
that this journey means an expense of some 2000 
crowns, if it be done with any comfort such as is 
indispensable to one in my infirm and broken state. 
I am therefore emboldened to ask so much of Your 
Majesty. ..." Frederic sent the money within 



28o JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

fifteen days, but he could not refrain from accom- 
panying the gift with an epigram: "The thought 
that these so-accursed kings can yet be of some 
service to the philosophers pleases me, for thus they 
may still seem good for something." 

D'Alembert and Condorcet set out for Italy in 
October, and having resolved to see Switzerland on 
the way, they inevitably found themselves at Ferney. 
Here Voltaire proved so good a host, and the tone 
of the house so salutary to his visitor's ills, that the 
tour ended before it was well begun, for d'Alembert 
had no sooner recovered his sleep and spirits than 
the thought of further separation from his friend 
became intolerable. Thus it came to pass that 
November saw him back in Rue Saint Dominique, 
with scarce 1500 livres of Frederic's 2000 crowns 
spent. He duly deposited the balance with the 
royal bankers, but since the King declined to take 
It back, It was afterwards devoted to charity. 
" Monsieur d'Alembert does well since he came 
back," Pere Paclaudi wrote to Condorcet soon after 
the former's return ; "he needed his taste of travel 
the better to appreciate the sweetness of repose and 
the gentle life with a few friends." 

While d'Alembert's thoughts at Ferney turned 
to the humble lodging of himself and his friend, until 
he could no longer withstand their promptings, and 
must follow them home, other aspirations, from a 
spot many hundred of miles away, experienced the 
same Imperious attraction, and were doubtless more 
deeply shared by the philosopher's co-tenant. " In 
the blest land" of Valencia, Mora chafed bitterly as 



MORA'S RETURN 281 

his strength returned, and his irritable temper was 
apt to fall as unkindly upon the friends who kept 
him there as did Julie's upon her equally devoted 
companion. " H is Excellency has a taste for tragics," 
groans Casalbon after one such scene, " and does not 
spare the colours in his speech. A man could not 
crush a murderer with rarer language than he has 
just used to me ! " A few days later, these scenes 
came to an abrupt termination, for, casting caution 
to the winds. Mora escaped his friends and was 
away hot-foot for Paris. His nun sister awaited 
him at Madrid, but, with not a day's break of the 
journey for all her pleading, he never slackened speed 
until his friends at the Embassy were welcoming the 
traveller with more surprise than pleasure. Absence 
had certainly abated no jot of his flames, and he and 
Julie were the more inseparable by reason of the 
bitter days now passed. 

Few spectacles pall like the affairs of others, and 
these pages shall not be burthened with a descrip- 
tion of the renewed loves of the Marquis and his lady. 
Twin souls in imaginative capacity and exaltation, 
their ecstasies no doubt justified Guibert's posthum- 
ous apostrophe to the ill-fated lover : " Death came 
in the flower of thy prime, but in those few years 
thou hadst gathered all the flowers which Heaven 
accords to us men upon this earth." Day by day 
they passed their mornings together ; dinner and 
supper found them reunited at the tables of compla- 
cent friends. If Mora had lent himself to the world's 
efforts, these days would have crowned his social 
career. Never was man more beset in the literary 



282 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

gatherings which he consented to honour, nor was 
there a known salon whose leader did not aver that 
he had graced its floor. Even Madame du Deffand 
consented to ignore the confessed admirer of JuUe, 
and entertained him in a brilliant company — Beau- 
vau, Stainville, the Archbishop of Toulouse, Count 
de Creutz, Caraccioli. "It did not pass off at all 
badly," she wrote to Walpole next morning. 

Pleasure, social admiration, or the seductions of 
gratified vanity were, however, powerless to woo 
the young Spaniard. " In the midst of the dissipa- 
tions of the Court," all the fashion, "courted by the 
most entrancing women, he had but one business, 
one desire — to live in my thoughts, to fill my life ! " 
Thus Julie ; but she is herself no whit less smitten, 
witness her conduct in keeping her room, and refus- 
ing herself to all friends, during the week in October 
when Louis XV. commanded her lover's presence 
at Fontainebleau. "I was either writing or reading 
a letter," she explained. " He was away for eleven 
days : I received twenty-two letters ! " This wanton- 
ness in love-letters, it may be remarked, is a charac- 
teristic of the times, in which their exchange was a 
veritable rage. " There are persons here," writes 
Walpole, then in Paris, "who write four such letters 
every day. I have heard of a couple, never out 
of each other's pockets, who were reduced to such 
straits for need of the outlet that our gentleman was 
fain to erect a barrier in his opened umbrella, where- 
over, or perhaps round which, he cast his missives 
into Her Ladyship's lap." 

Julie would have tasted heaven in these days but 



MORA'S NEW RELAPSE 283 

for the continual cloud on her horizon — Mora's 
health. Seine damp and social wear and tear were 
quick to consume what energy he had stored up at 
Valencia, and only a few months were gone before 
his old troubles again showed themselves, slight at 
first, then more serious, and always with increasing 
frequency. Naturally careless, and subject to the 
illusions of all in like case, the Marquis ignored 
his warnings and remained obstinately hopeful with 
each new attack surmounted. Julie's keener sight 
constantly brought her to the gates of despair. 
*' Life does not contain the wherewithal to set 
against my suffering since Monday," she tells Suard. 
" For the matter of that, I may say that I have been 
upon the rack these three months ; yet I can only 
love him the better for it." A climax came early in 
June, when her lover brought up blood so copiously 
that he was in serious danger for three whole days. 
" He has been bled thrice," Condorcet wrote to 
Turgot on June 7th, " and has now taken the right 
turn. But he did not deserve this good fortune, 
and the whole thing is terrible for his friends." 
" Mademoiselle de Lespinasse is still very un- 
happy," he wrote again to Madame Suard, " and 
these repeated drains on his poor remaining strength 
are only too good warrant for her fears." 

Ill as he certainly was. Mora made an aston- 
ishing recovery ; but, summer being come. Doctor 
Lorry prescribed a season at Bagneres, the warm 
springs at which place were highly reputed for all 
pulmonary affections. This verdict proved a 
wrench, but it was nothing to the troubles that now 



284 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

fell upon the Fuentes family. The Count's means 
had not sufficed to meet the heavy demands of the 
life at Paris and Versailles and the huge train held 
requisite for his ambassadorial rank, and his fortune 
was seriously undermined. Yet, as if these twin 
anxieties were insufficient, he was now called to face 
the serious decline in his wife's health. She had 
ailed these many years, but had grown less and less 
strong:, until it seemed certain that she was in a 
decline. All these troubles harassed the Ambas- 
sador so much that he declared himself disgusted 
with Paris for good and all. "His hypochondria 
increases daily, and certainly little of what he has to 
face can seem pleasing to any man's eyes." Azara, 
the writer of these lines, adds a few days later, "He 
has obtained temporary leave of absence ; " but the 
Count's departure was final, in point of fact, for he 
was succeeded by Count d'Aranda, without having 
returned to present his letters of recall. On leaving 
Paris, he ordered his son to return to his mother at 
Madrid so soon as his course at Bagneres should 
be completed. 

Julie's troubles at the receipt of this news defied 
her powers of self-containment. " Monsieur de 
Mora," she tells Condorcet, "was here last after- 
noon. He seemed very well, but the thought of 
three hundred leagues between us, and he with a 
mortal sickness, is indeed terrifying. Is it not 
fearful — this trouble which one affection can bring 
upon our lives ? Yet, such is the power of senti- 
ment that we would never agree to escape love ! " 
Mora was little less downcast as the time of depar- 



HIS PROMISES 285 

ture approached, but his younger temperament was 
more elastic, and he declined to meet tragedy half- 
way. Thus, he is sure that " my health is perfectly 
restored, and I am just where I was before this 
last upset. I incline to think that my present 
treatment shows better results than the former one, 
and I look to more permanent results." Another 
letter is in less happy strain : " The name of the 
Pyrenees, in your letter, makes me tremble. Cruel 
September looms too near." Yet, hope is quick to 
recur : " I could never consent to leave you if my 
return were not assured. And then my vows will be 
complete, and all our hopes fulfilled .'' 

Mora's last sentence refers to the certitude that 
he felt of being able to force the consent of his 
family when once he reached Madrid, and so to 
return to Paris triumphant, and openly affianced to 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. This promise re- 
mained with her as the one bright star in the dark- 
ness of her coming days, and is referred to in an 
early stage of her correspondence with Guibert. 
" You really ask strange questions : ' Has he a better 
reason than I for his absence f ' Surely he has 
many, and one in particular so absolute and of such 
a kind that very life should not acquit me of its 
success. Every circumstance and event, and all 
reasons physical and moral, array themselves against 
me ; but this one reason is so strong that I cannot 
doubt he will return — no, not for a moment." 

Gossip was quick to carry this rumour. Count 
d'Albon heard it from the depths of his estate at 
Forez, and forthwith fearing lest his sister should 



286 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

at last claim her mother's name and a share in the 
family heritage, he stated a case for a lawyer, whose 
reply is preserved among the archives of Avauges. 
He need not have feared, for, "always and entirely 
full of a sentiment which concerned herself alone," 
Julie had no thoughts to spare for mere name or 
money. This opinion of Morellet is borne out by 
Julie's cry on her beloved's death : " No single 
worldly thought " has touched her passion in all the 
past six years. " What could he have thought of 
me if he had once seen me as so many women are ? 
What proof could have shown him the purity of my 
sentiments then ? Whether some delicacy attaches 
me to my poverty, or that I have never thought 
upon the future, I protest that not so much as once 
have I toyed with the hope of seeing my fortunes 
change." 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse felt as though the 
heart were reft from her breast when Mora s carriage 
finally swept him away to Bagneres on August 7, 
1772. " All that I am is centred upon this one 
thing. Nature is without life to me, excepting only 
that one object which moves my being and fills each 
moment of my existence." This passionate Julie 
was, surely, altogether sincere ; yet, seeing herself 
as she would be less than a year later, another 
phrase once dropped by her must no less certainly 
have come into her mind : " Nature's greatest spaces 
are marked by no milestones. True distance, the 
separations which terrify — these lie in the soul's 
forgetfulness. Death is their own cousin, but death 
is the lesser evil, for these are felt — ah ! how long ? " 



CHAPTER XI 

Fke at Moulin-Joli— Count Guibert — His high repule at this time — Popularity 
with women — Madame de Montsauge — Guibert impresses Julie — Her 
long illusion on the nature of his feelings for her — His German tour — 
Increasing passion of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Her remorse on 
account of Mora — Bad news from the latter — Correspondence between 
d'Alembert and the Duke of Villa Hermosa — Cruel agitation of Julie — 
She confesses her love to Guibert — His response — Growing jealousy on 
account of Madame de Montsauge — Illness of Guibert — Julie's anxiety — 
Guibert at last announces his return. 

Among houses most frequented by social Paris in 
the year 1772 was that of Watelet, financier, farmer- 
general, author, engraver, and member of both the 
Academic Frangaise and the Academie des Beaux- 
Arts. This accomplished man, of wide intelligence 
and cultivated tastes, had established himself just 
outside the city, near the left bank of the Seine, 
and not far from the Bezons ferry, in a rural abode 
which, on account of its novelty, provoked general 
curiosity and admiration. The " return to nature" 
was at its height. Having begun with literature, it 
now extended itself to all the arts, and especially to 
that of decorative gardening. The straight paths, 
square garden-beds and hedges of the old French 
parks, were beginning to give way to less geometric 
designs and more fanciful shapes. In this the 
financier Boutin, leader of the movement, overshot 
the mark, for his gardens were simply an accumu- 
lation of groves, meadows, rocks, waterfalls, and 

round-topped hills, resembling, Walpole says, "vege- 

287 



288 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

table puddings" and winding rivers "easily navi- 
gable in the nut-shell season." " There is something 
so sociable," continues this eternal scoffer, " in being 
able to shake hands across a river or from two 
mountain peaks! It is a conception that only one 
nation is sufficiently amiable to imagine." 

Watelet had avoided this excess, and his domain 
of Moulin-Joli in no way resembled a "sample- 
box." Its two islands were connected by a bridge 
of boats bordered with boxes of flowers, and were 
covered with orchards, flowering shrubs, and wide- 
spreading trees — Italian poplars, elms, and weeping- 
willows — whose drooping branches formed natural 
arches "under which," writes Madame Lebrun, "to 
rest and dream with delight." Mingled with the 
rarer plants, wild flowers and weeds grew and 
multiplied at will, while, in different directions, 
vistas framed in wide-arched avenues led down 
the eye to some lovely view of chateau, village, 
church spire, or convent. 

The creator of this enchanting Elysium lived 
here in perfect and harmonious unity with her whom 
he had associated with his life. Marguerite Lecomte, 
who, thirty years earlier, had escaped from her hus- 
band's house to follow him. This flight had taken 
place without noise or scandal, and the husband 
had been the first to show calm indulgence, abstain- 
ing from all complaint and reproach, and occupying 
his leisure, by way of diverting himself, in making 
" vinegar and mustard," and in assiduously frequent- 
ing the house of his successor. The world had. 
little by little, done the same, and spoke only with 



MOULIN-JOLI 289 

touching respect of this sexagenarian couple, a 
model ''faux-m^nage" and very Philemon and 
Baucis of extra-conjugal conjugality. The best 
society, the most exclusive women, the digni- 
taries of the Church, all paraded their intimacy 
with "/<a! meuniere de Moulin-Joliy' and crowded 
her drawing-room. At an entertainment given in 
October 1773, Watelet's mistress was placed at 
table between the Archbishop of Bourges and 
Mademoiselle de Coss6 Brissac, daughter of the 
duchess of that name. After this dinner, the Due 
de Nivernais sang couplets which treated all the 
guests, including the Archbishop, with the greatest 
familiarity ; but the author reserved all the respect 
of which he was capable for Marguerite Lecomte. 
Every personage of their time, in fact, evinced the 
greatest cordiality towards the host and hostess of 
the "Enchanted Isle," the one discordant note in 
this concert being the austere disapproval of Madame 
de Genlis, governess to the children of the Duke of 
Orleans — and presumptive mother of her pupils. 

D'Alembert was a constant guest at this hospit- 
able house, and a life-long friend of its owner. 
** For thirty years," writes Watelet to Pere Paci- 
audi, " we have either seen each other or exchanged 
some mark of friendship every day." Relations were 
equally cordial with Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, 
and there was never a luncheon, supper, or recep- 
tion of any kind at Moulin-Joli to which she 
was not invited among the first, and especially 
welcomed. She was present, among other occasions, 
at an affair which took place on the 21st of June, 

T 



290 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

on a beautiful afternoon of this first summer month. 
Mora was at last convalescent after a terrible attack. 
His friend, freed from her long anguish of anxiety, 
began again to take an interest in life, and felt the 
need of shaking off for a moment the remembrance 
of those terrible hours. Among the many guests 
on this occasion was a person just coming into 
public notice, Jacques Antoine Hippolyte, Count 
de Guibert, colonel in the army, and author of a 
successful book of which mention must presently 
be made. A phrase in " I'Eloge d'Eliza" would seem 
to indicate that this may not have been a first 
meeting, but if Guibert and Mademoiselle de Les- 
pinasse had already met in Paris, they had not 
hitherto found opportunities to know each other 
in any real sense. At Moulin-Joli, on the con- 
trary, the customary ease of a country gathering, 
with its free invitations to wander through the 
gardens, offered an opportunity for conversation of 
which they readily availed themselves. It is easy 
to imagine them walking side by side in the beauti- 
ful shaded avenues which led to the Seine, or seated 
in the poetic shade of a weeping-willow, and there, 
among these charming surroundings, abandoning 
themselves simply and without mistrust to the 
instinctive sympathy which dawns when two hearts 
discover mutual tastes, feelings, and ideas. 

There was certainly no thought of sentiment in 
this first meeting, nor, on Julie's part at any rate, 
any desire for, or anticipation of, closer friendship. 
** I was very far," she writes to Guibert in the 
following year, " from needing to form a new tie ; 



GUIBERT 291 

my life and my heart were both too full to permit 
of my desiring a fresh interest." Nevertheless, he 
undoubtedly made a deep impression upon her. 
Three days after the meeting at Moulin- J oli she 
writes to Condorcet : " I have met Monsieur de 
Guibert, who pleases me extremely ; every word 
that he utters shows depth of character, and a strong 
and exalted nature. He is like no one else." She 
immediately procured his book, not then published 
in France, and read it with the greatest appreciation ; 
and when her note of congratulation was answered 
by the author in person, a second conversation 
strengthened the effect of the first. She again con- 
fided in Condorcet : " Monsieur de Guibert has been 
here. He continues to please me infinitely." It 
was thus for good reason that J ulie afterwards dated 
the event which was to change her whole existence, 
and bring "misery to her life," from "the day at 
Moulin-Joli." Nor does she by this diminish her 
right to deny premeditation, and to accuse Fate 
alone : " Are we free agents .'* Can that which is 
be other than it is .'* " 

At the date of this entry into Julie's life, Guibert 
was barely twenty-nine years old, but had already 
achieved great distinction. Twelve years in the 
army had gained him a brilliant record in the 
Seven Years' War and in the Corsican campaign. 
Finally, he was author of a book, "A Comprehensive 
Study of Tactics," the appearance of which at about 
this time produced an extraordinary sensation 
throughout all Europe. The volume — the real 
foundation of his fame — was divided into two 



292 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

parts, the second of which took the form of a 
didactic treatise upon the several European sys- 
tems, and indicated the author's idea of essential 
reforms in tactics and strategy. Of this technical 
section we need only say that it overthrew all the 
old ideas, and substituted for them those since pre- 
valent. Napoleon carried a copy of it, annotated 
by his own hand, through all his first campaigns. 
The first part, however, excited yet more general 
enthusiasm by its brilliant and fiery eloquence. In 
this, under the title of "A Preliminary Discourse," the 
young author audaciously attacked all the existing 
monarchies, that of his own country in particular, 
vehemently denounced absolutism, set out his own 
opinion of the basis upon which the old realm of 
France should be remodelled, and formulated, 
twenty years before the Revolution, the very doc- 
trines which were the Evangel of the reformers 
of 1789. 

No words can describe the effect produced upon 
public opinion by this language then so new, and 
by the sincere patriotism that rang through these 
exalted pages, so rich in their quick alternation 
between dreams and ideas of unquestioned sound- 
ness. It evoked nothing but praise ; for while the 
army gloried in the success of an officer, the En- 
cyclopaedists exulted in a brilliant addition to their 
ranks, and Voltaire declared the " Tactique " a work 
of genius, the " Court and the fashionable world," 
says La Harpe, "flattered themselves upon op- 
posing a colonel to the whole literary world." An 
imprudent critic was immediately crushed by a 



HIS GREAT REPUTATION 293 

wit's retort : " Those who look for spots in the sun 
lose their sight." 

Not unnaturally, the colonel's most ardent ad- 
mirers were often women, and the "Essay on 
Tactics " had its place on every tea-table and in 
every boudoir. A distinguished salon went even 
further when the interesting subject which it dis- 
cussed during an entire evening was simply, " Is 
the mother, the sister, or the mistress of Monsieur 
de Guibert to be most envied ? " 

Public infatuation of the kind could not fail 
promptly to transfer itself from the work to the 
author. Many a great man and hero of the hour 
had been raised to mushroom renown in the excit- 
able and overheated atmosphere of Parisian society 
during the last few years. The fame of the best of 
them never so much as distantly approached the 
surprising eminence attained in the space of a day, 
and long enjoyed, by Guibert. "He leaps to glory 
by all the roads," writes the great Frederick, and 
the patriarch of Ferney adds : " I do not know 
whether he will be a Corneille or a Turenne, but 
to me he seems born to greatness, no matter what 
the sphere of his choice." Julie de Lespinasse but 
echoes the general opinion when she says to him : 
" There are names made for history : yours will 
always excite admiration." No lesser word than 
genius was ever used to characterise him ; no one 
ever doubted that here was the future glory of his 
country and the instrument of her regeneration. 
"He stands at the head of an intellectual group, 
for whom he is an oracle ; his virtues and his ability 



294 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

are so highly thought of by his disciples and friends, 
that there are those among them who rejoice to be 
born of his time, as I know not which philosopher 
rejoiced that he was born in the time of Socrates." 
Buonaparte, just returned from Egypt, was hardly 
the object of greater hopes to the educated world of 
Paris than was Count de Guibert at the time of his 
first acquaintance with Julie de Lespinasse. 

Judged across the intervening years, such en- 
thusiasm seems rather inexplicable, for it was of 
the kind which passes with, as it originates in, the 
personality of a man. It was not a product of 
physical perfection ; Julie herself remains calm on 
this point : " His face is fine without being dis- 
tinguished ; his features are regular, but rather lack- 
ing in expression, and his general air is subdued and 
gentle. He has an easy carriage, and the free and 
natural laugh of early youth." Guibert's portraits 
convey an impression of force and energy rather 
than of charm and grace. They depict a man with 
large brow framed in thick, tight-curling hair ; deep- 
set eyes, a rather heavy jaw, and a large mouth with 
full lips. The head is carried very erect upon a 
powerful neck. He was somewhat short in stature, 
but his bearing was noble and free, "with a certain 
adroitness and assurance of manner " — a man good- 
looking, in fact, and at all points, but not one to 
attract particular attention or in any way suggest 
the hero of romance. The secret of his empire over 
contemporary opinion lay, indeed, in that which is 
essentially fugitive — an almost miraculous gift of 
eloquence. He needed but to open his lips and an 



HIS PERSONAL CHARM 295 

audience was bewitched. His voice, exquisitely 
modulated, sweet and winning, stirred the hearts of 
listeners even before their minds succumbed to 
words which flowed forth like a deep - sounding 
stream, rich in imagery, fresh, strikingly expressive, 
full of poetic comparisons, expressed, one and all, 
with the utmost heat and fire, but also with extreme 
clearness. A mysterious fire seemed at such times 
to escape from the depths of his being and to illu- 
minate the furthest recesses of his thought. " While 
he spoke with one," wrote Madame de Stael, "his 
mind was yours. His conversation was the most 
varied, the most animated, and the richest that ever 
I knew. In public or in private, in whatever frame 
of mind either he or you might be, his intellect was 
always at work, and he never failed to communicate 
his thought." This judgment of an enthusiast is 
seconded by that of Madame Necker, a woman as 
calm and as moderate as her daughter was the 
reverse : " More gifted in his own way than the 
most gifted, no one before him had possessed such 
marvellous and individual talent. His genius was 
knit with enthusiasm, and enthusiasm can alone 
describe him who, to the end of his life, was ever 
able to make all things seem in some way personally 
connected with himself by the sheer power of his own 
sympathy, thought, or action." On the morrow of 
hearing Guibert read one of his own works, this 
critic wrote to Grimm: "Our young man reads a 
whole play alone better than the best company of 
actors could do it, and women are borne dead or 
dying from his performance." 



296 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

A man who joined to this power of oratory a 
peerless memory of which many surprising feats 
are quoted, a tireless activity, a capacity for work 
which enabled him to accomplish the most difficult 
and varied tasks, yet never curtail his social diver- 
sions, would at all times be an Admirable Crichton. 
Guibert was this to his contemporaries, particularly 
to such as were of the other sex. A professional 
Don Juan, indeed — and Guibert was not this — could 
hardly have surpassed the tale of his conquests, yet 
he troubled himself about them not a jot. "The 
levity, even hardness, with which he treats women," 
Julie once complained, "comes from the small con- 
sideration in which he holds them. . . . He thinks 
them flirtatious, vain, weak, false, and frivolous. 
Those whom he judges most favourably he believes 
romantic, and though obliged to recognise good 
qualities in some, he does not on that account value 
them more highly, but holds that they have fewer 
vices rather than more virtues." Again she says : 
" He takes them for diversion and distraction, and 
leaves them for the same reasons ; nor does he con- 
sider their feelings sufficiently to feel it necessary to 
spare them." This description is not exaggerated, 
yet, so illogical is the sex, the less he cared for his 
adorers, the more ardently did they cling to him. 
He received as a fit tribute, so to speak, the love 
that he excited in all directions, and fluttered from 
one to another as fancy dictated. His own heart 
was never once involved, for in this dawn of his life 
dreams of ambition and glory left no room for senti- 
mental reveries, and, as Madame de Stael says, not 



MADAME DE MONTSAUGE 297 

without malice, "He was interested in his own 
thought, and perhaps in himself, to the exclusion of 
others." 

These easy successes and short - lived affairs 
were, however, no obstacle to a serious and, so to 
speak, acknowledged connection. Julie's first picture 
of him says : " Monsieur de Guibert is really less 
lovable than he is worthy of being loved, at any 
rate by his friends and his mistress, for it is impos- 
sible that he should not have one." She was the 
more sure of this fact since, as will appear, he 
had already confided to her the full story of a tie, 
which, frail as it was, had all the strength and re- 
sistance to change that are the issue of long habit. 
Guibert's mistress, Jeanne Thiroux de Montsauge, 
now past her thirtieth year, had long nourished 
for him a calm, deep, and real affection. She was 
a daughter of Bouret, the farmer-general — a man 
long famous for his wild prodigality and ostentation, 
and finally for his complete ruin and tragic end. She 
was a clear-sighted, prudent, and reasonable person, 
a little commonplace, perhaps, but capable of true 
devotion, and, as Guibert writes, made for "a sweet 
and gentle friendship " rather than for great passions 
and frenzied raptures. Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
is very scornful of this moderation. " I think he 
has made a great mistake," she writes. "He has 
fallen to one who arrests his progress, while worthy 
of a Madame de Moussetiere." ^ Guibert himself 
echoes this complaint with signal injustice, for few 

^ The notorious heroine of a contemporary intrigue which cul- 
minated in the death of herself and her lover. 



298 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

women, however loving, would bear, without com- 
plaint or apparent jealousy, the coldness, fickleness, 
and infidelity which were her reward at his hands. 
On Mora's departure from Paris, a continuous inter- 
course was established between Julie de Lespinasse 
and Count de Guibert. Their letters show us how 
unconsciously they drifted into this dangerous inti- 
macy. Guibert, after several years of a connection 
which did not, perhaps, sufficiently flatter his vanity, 
was now at the point where a man, tied by habit 
alone, is secretly chafing to escape. He did not 
scruple to tell Julie this, and a year later we find her 
writing: "You have not forgotten what you told 
me twenty times last year? You had then every 
intention of taking a decided course and of breaking 
definitely with her. I remember having opposed 
that resolution, and at that time, as you know, I 
wanted nothing for myself" " You assured me that 
you no longer loved this woman," she wrote a little 
later, *' and that your heart was so free of any real 
feeling that your earnest wish was for marriage." 
Yet, though thus heartless, Guibert could not escape 
our mortal need, whereby we would cloak our baser 
feelings with an air of nobility. His satiety was to 
be called the lassitude of a heart discouraged by the 
essentially common nature of a companion whom 
his utmost efforts could not raise to his own level. 
•' After all," he remarks, ** I cannot complain. Could 
I expect her to resemble me? to resemble you?" 
He continued to develop this theme with that 
warmth of expression which lent such power to his 
words, until Julie began, in good faith, to pity him 



GUIBERT CHARMS JULIE 299 

as the victim of a terrible mistake and to weep over 
this so misunderstood nature : "Only the unfortunate 
are worthy of friends ; if your soul had not suffered, 
it could never have known mine." 

This fictitious analogy of two hearts equally 
wounded, equally sorrowing, fostered a rapid in- 
timacy. The absence of the Marquis de Mora, and 
the bad news received from him, left Julie without 
energy and almost without hope. Mental distrac- 
tions or social pleasures could no longer beguile or 
assuage her grief. She thought that she found 
some alleviation of her pain in the intelligent sym- 
pathy of a kindred soul, passionate like her own, and 
equally unhappy ; and while she sought consolation 
for Mora's sad case, the consoler gradually and 
insensibly enmeshed her in his charm. " You 
alone," she writes, "have perhaps won me a few 
instants of oblivion from my sorrow, and this bless- 
ing of a moment has for ever attached me to you. 
. . . My soul had no need of loving. It was filled 
by feelings of the utmost tenderness. The sadness 
which walks with such feeling drew me to you. 
You should only have pleased me, and you have 
touched me." She ingenuously discloses the depths 
of her heart in these charming and graceful words : 
" I had suffered so much ! My heart and my soul 
were exhausted by too long sorrow. But I saw 
you ; you brought new life and brightness to my 
soul ; and now I know not which yields higher 
pleasures — the thought of my joy, or that I enjoy it 
through you." No presentiment warned her of 
approaching danger. Confident in her tenderness 



300 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

and affection for her absent lover, she had no reason 
to mistrust herself: "Guarded as I was by affection 
and unhappiness, and by the inestimable blessing 
of being loved by a perfect nature, how should I 
fear ? how foresee danger ? And you ! To a soul 
thus filled, and thus surrounded, you brought the 
fire of passion, the misery of remorse." Later, in a 
species of self-examination, she repeats the same 
thing : "I could not have explained my own 
thoughts. I alternated between the uneasiness 
of nascent passion and the too necessary and 
flattering illusion of having inspired tenderness 
equal to my own." She is disturbed only by fear 
lest this growing friendship should not always 
remain peaceful and helpful, lest her own nervous 
temperament may not presently cause trouble and 
dissension between them. " I have told you that 
our friendship cannot be like that of Montaigne and 
La Boetie — calm natures, fitted to receive gentle and 
natural impressions. But we are two sick people. 
Yet, there is between us this difference," she adds : 
" you are a strong and reasonable invalid, who con- 
trives to enjoy perpetual good health; I am a victim 
of mortal sickness — such sickness as poisons what 
should relieve it, and out of each new remedy makes 
to itself new torments." 

These last lines, in which we distinguish a new 
note, soon to become more accentuated, mark a 
stage in this story which must not pass unnoted. 
From this moment, in fact, and in spite of her 
enraptured illusions, Julie has by glimpses vague 
intuitions of Guibert's real nature, and a presen- 



HER HOPES AND FEARS 301 

timent of what she is to suffer from this heart " more 
ardent than tender," having the flame of passion 
without its warmth, and too occupied with ''glory" 
really to yield to love. Thus she comes to the day 
of this melancholy irony : " Something, I know not 
what, warns me that I might say of our friendship 
what Count d'Argenson said on first seeing his niece. 
Mademoiselle de Berville : ' Ah ! here's a pretty 
Miss ! We must hope for a great deal of trouble 
with her.' " And later, yet more clearly : " Unless I 
am much mistaken, you are made to be the joy of a 
shallow soul and the despair of a sensitive one. . . . 
Pity on any woman of feeling who depends upon 
your love! Her life would be consumed in fears 
and in regret." 

These passages are no more, however, than a 
reflection of passing moods. Guibert need but 
protest, evince the least genuine interest, and Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse recovers her lost faith in 
him, and is charmed anew : " If I were young, 
pretty, and charming, I should distrust your atten- 
tions ; but as I am none of these things, and am 
indeed their exact opposite, I find in them a kind- 
ness and an honesty which have endeared you for 
ever to my heart. You have filled it with gratitude 
and esteem, and with all the feelings necessary to 
intimacy and mutual confidence. . . . You wish me 
peacefully to enjoy the friendship which you offer 
me, and the reality of which you prove to me with 
equal sweetness and amiability. Yes, I accept it — 
I cherish it ; it shall console me ; and to enjoy your 
society at any time shall be my chief desire, and 



302 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

that whereunto I most do yearn." Thus the first 
stage passes, while Julie, alternating between doubts 
and hopes, joy and sadness, is constantly blown by 
contrary winds, and, divining in her heart the yet 
distant reefs which lie across her path, can yet find 
no strength to avoid them. 

To dispel the mists which clouded her will, 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse required the test of 
some new trial. She found it in a brief break in 
their growing intimacy. At a time when the taste 
for travel was little prevalent in France, Guibert 
from his earliest youth astonished contemporary 
society by his ardour for those long journeys which 
appeal so strongly to curious souls that crave new 
sensations, and which are also, as Julie reproach- 
fully suggests, proof of a restless nature impatient 
of repose. "Motion is evermore necessary to you 
than action. This phrase sounds subtle, but think 
it over, and you will see that it is true." In May 
1773, the Count was suddenly seized with the desire 
to travel through Austria, Prussia, and the Rhine 
country ; to visit the battlefields of the Seven Years' 
War, and to study the military organisation of Ger- 
many under Frederick. Juhe had, as yet, no right 
to combat this fancy ; she therefore resigned herself, 
demanding only that he should write frequent letters 
as he journeyed. Yet, his promise given, she has 
scruples upon the matter: "See whether I am not 
generous ! I give you back your word if the pledg- 
ing it has caused you one regret. . . . Confess, 
then ! — I promise that I will not be hurt. Vanity 
alone stickles for such a point, and of vanity I have 



HER DOUBTS 303 

none. I am simply a good creature, very stupid 
and very natural, who cares more for the pleasure 
of those whom she loves than for anything more 
personal to herself. . . . Do as you please, and 
write to me a little, much, or not at all." 

Guibert's departure was set for May 19th, a 
Wednesday, but on the following day Julie learned 
that Guibert had been seen in Paris : " I went 
myself to find out if you were ill, and — this will seem 
horrible to you — I believe that I really hoped to 
find you so. Yet, by an inconsistency which I cannot 
explain, I felt the greatest relief on hearing that you 
had left." Julie's earlier letters after their separa- 
tion are all characterised by this same lack of ease 
and uncertainty, this ebb and flow of contradictory 
feelings. " Since I do not know how your depar- 
ture will affect me," she says to him before he leaves, 
" I cannot tell whether I shall have the leisure or 
the will to write to you." This " will," as one might 
expect, does not even wait until Guibert has passed 
the frontier of France ; yet the long pages received 
by him at Strassburg were certainly calculated to 
puzzle even a man so accustomed to conquest. 
Thus there are certain pages in which she seems to 
strive for self-control, and to find in his absence the 
courage denied her in his presence : " No ! no! I 
do not want your friendship. ... It exasperated 
me, I need rest, and to forget you for a time." 
Yet, a moment later, she weakens the harshness of 
this sentence : " Your absence has restored my tran- 
quillity, but it has increased my sadness. I cannot 
tell whether I do or do not regret you, I miss you 



304 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

as one misses a pleasure." She is haunted by fears 
lest he should forget her amidst the excitements of 
travel : " When you read this, you will be Heaven 
knows how far away. Your body will have travelled 
only three hundred miles, but what a distance your 
mind will have covered ! You will be in the midst 
of such new sights, such new thoughts and ideas ! I 
feel as though I were speaking to your shadow now ; 
everything that I have ever known of you is gone ; 
and how hardly will you find in your memory a trace 
of the affection which animated you during your last 
days here ! " This prospect agitates her so much 
that she appeals in almost suppliant terms to that 
same friendship of which but a moment before she 
seemed so reckless : " Would to Heaven that you 
were my friend, or that I had never known you ! 
Do you believe that you can be my friend ? Think, 
just once, if I ask too much ? " 

Separation is opening her eyes to the truth. This 
agitation, this anguish, this emptiness of life, are 
surely no usual indications of pure and calm affec- 
tion ? She has known their like before. There- 
fore she analyses herself long and faithfully ; and, 
trembling at her own answers, applies to her absent 
friend to help unravel her own soul, and to comfort 
her in her distress : " Tell me, is this the tone of 
friendship, of confidence? What is this which 
sweeps me on? Help me to recover my real self! 
Is this remorse, which so overwhelms my soul, 
my fault ? — you ? — your departure ? What is it that 
persecutes me ? I am at the end of my strength ! 
At this moment I confide absolutely in you, yet 



REMORSE FOR MORA 305 

perhaps I shall never see you again." The mood 
returns a few weeks later : *' I no longer know what 
I owe you, nor what I give you. I can scarcely 
bear your absence, yet I am not sure that your 
presence would help me. What a horrible situa- 
tion is this, wherein pleasure, consolation — our all is 
turned to poison ! What shall I do ? Tell me ! Tell 
me, where is peace found ? Oh, how many deaths 
one can die without dying ! " 

The suffering in these lines is too patent to need 
explanation. Julie has lost the right to dispose of 
this quivering heart, so surely slipping away from 
her, whose every beat is now a species of treason 
against him into whose hands it was so lately given. 
A letter from Mora received on the eve of Guibert's 
departure, and full of tenderness and confidence, 
roused the first pricks of remorse. "He speaks 
of me, of what I am thinking, of my soul, with the 
knowledge and certainty given by deep and strong 
feeling." Her sleeping conscience sprang to full 
life as she read. She wrote to Guibert again : " I 
want to be sincere with you and with myself, and I 
am really afraid lest my present perplexity deceive 
myself. Perhaps my remorse is greater than my 
fault, my alarm itself the greatest offence to him 
whom I love." But, reason and seek to reassure 
herself as she may, the inner voice answers that 
she is really guilty. " What fatality led you to me ? 
Why did I not die in September? I should then 
have died without regret or self-reproach ! I would 
die for him to-day ; there is no sacrifice I would 
not make for him. The difference is, that there was 

u 



3o6 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

then no possibility of ' sacrifice.' I did not love him 
more, but better." 

The first separation between Julie de Lespinasse 
and Count Guibert thus begins the struggle which 
was to rend her soul for three years, and the first real 
blow in this long martyrdom fell when, early in the 
separation, a letter from Spain brought the saddest 
news. The Marquis de Mora's cure at Bagneres 
proved far from successful. Terrible haemorrhages, 
combined with the bleedings prescribed by the doctor, 
weakened him to such an extent that it was doubted 
whether he could travel to Madrid on its conclusion. 
"He has left Bagneres in such a condition," Julie 
wrote to Condorcet, "that I fear for his life. His 
doctor is with him, but, though he may help him, 
he offers no guarantee against a relapse, which the 
Marquis could never survive in his present exhausted 
condition. He has been bled nine times, and was 
so utterly weakened as to be incapable of appreciat- 
ing the danger of his journey. Most excellent and 
kindest of men, think of me in this situation ! " 
Mora, however, reached Bayonne, where his sister, 
the Duchesse de Villa Hermosa, awaited him, and 
together they returned to the Spanish capital. Rest, 
good care, and his native air greatly improved his 
condition, but he had need of all his strength in a 
severe trial that now supervened. His mother, the 
Countess de Fuentes, herself very ill and declining 
rapidly, rallied her failing strength to combat her 
son's unhappy passion. Mora entreated her con- 
sent to his marriage with Julie. She replied with a 
formal refusal, and was encouraged in her obstinate 



MORA'S UNEASINESS 307 

resistance to renewed pleas by the young Duchesse 
de Villa Hermosa, who dreaded for her brother the 
influence of "the crafty Frenchwoman." "I have 
a presentiment," writes Julie, justly uneasy, " that 
Madame de Villa Hermosa will poison the rest of 
my life. I trust that she will not also poison his ! " 
These family quarrels and discussions, joined to the 
postponement of his hopes, threw Mora into a state 
of utter despair. His fidelity, however, remained 
staunch as always — witness again one of Julie's 
letters. " I have had ten pages from him, full of 
tenderness and sorrow. He is far more unhappy 
than I. He knows better how to love, he has more 
character ; in a word, he has everything to make 
him the most unhappy and the most beloved of men." 
We may well believe that if Mora had not been 
so weak he would have adapted his conduct more 
wisely to the situation, for mother and sister, thus 
defied, did not scruple to resort to extreme measures. 
Takinpf advantagfe of the weakness which confined 
the invalid to his room, they intercepted, when 
possible, both the letters leaving Madrid and those 
coming from France. This led to periods of enforced 
silence between the friends, followed by recrimina- 
tions against the post : " Our letters are lost — there 
is great delay," Julie complained at first, but such 
an explanation did not satisfy her when the accident 
recurred. Her suspicions led to appeals to the Due 
de Villa Hermosa through d'Alembert, whose corre- 
spondence with Mora's friend and brother-in-law, 
still preserved in the archives of the house of 
Villa Hermosa, is a precious source of information. 



3o8 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

" Although Monsieur de Mora's friends approve of 
his silence," writes the philosopher, " they are 
nevertheless very much alarmed ; they fear that 
he is unable to break it, rather than obliged by his 
regimen to keep it. We beg that the Due de Villa 
Hermosa will kindly inform Monsieur de Mora's 
friends whether his luno-s have recovered from the 
violent attack at Bagneres, whether he still suffers 
from fainting-fits, and what food he takes ? We 
trust that these questions will be kindly pardoned 
on the ground of the friendship which dictates 
them. . . ." 

Mora's brother-in-law replies to this request with 
the greatest cordiality, and spares no details : " You 
may assure his friends that his lungs have recovered 
from the attack from which he suffered at Bagneres, 
and that he has had no return of the fainting-fits. 
He is, however, still too weak to limit himself to a 
vegetable diet; he eats a Viitle ^ucAero, our Spanish 
dish of chicken and veal. He is even obliged to 
take his meals alone, and only yesterday was he 
able for the first time to do me the honour of dining 
with me. This is the first occasion on which he has 
left his room at such an hour. He goes out very 
little, and with every imaginable precaution against 
the cold, keen air of this country. In a word, I have 
the honour to tell you that he is recovering, but 
slowly. He begs me to assure you and his friends 
of his gratitude, and to tell you that he wrote last 
week, and by the three preceding posts, to Mademoi- 
selle de Lespinasse. . . ." 

Subsequent letters from the Duke, with others of 



HIS NEW RELAPSE 309 

Mora's own forwarded through him, seemed to 
warrant hopes of a real recovery ; and when the 
last of the winter months and the beginning of 
spring passed without a single set-back, Julie began 
to feel hopeful. But this was not to last. A month 
after Guibert's departure Mora suffered another 
serious attack. "He has spat blood, he has been 
bled twice," Mademoiselle de Lespinasse tells Gui- 
bert. " When the post left he was better, but the 
haemorrhages may have continued. How can I be 
calm, with this thought.'* . . . Suffering," she con- 
tinues, " has weakened my soul, and I succumb to it. 
At five o'clock this morning I took two grains of 
opium. It gives me calm, which is better than sleep. 
... I can speak to you now and bemoan myself, but 
yesterday I could not have found words to express 
my fear for the life of him I love. I must have died 
then, sooner than utter these words which freeze 
my heart. You have loved ; think, then, what it is 
to have such fearful anxiety ! And until Wednes- 
day I am to continue in an uncertainty which, 
terrible though it be, yet commands me to live 
until then." 

The anxiety which preys upon Julie, and which, 
she says, " keeps me between convulsions and 
fainting-fits," has a curious effect upon her feeling 
for Guibert. Her superstitious nature, reinforced by 
no religious sense, finds in her morbid self-torturings 
the just reward of faithlessness, and its proper 
punishment. An accursed destiny has thrown this 
fatal consoler in her way. " Yes, truly, I believe 
that my day last year at Moulin-Joli was fatal to my 



3IO JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

life. ... I hate and abhor the chance that led me 
to write you that first note ! " She is not content with 
accusing herself, but blames Guibert also for the 
affection which he has inspired. " Oh, what are you, 
that you should for one instant have diverted me 
from the most charming, the most perfect of men ? " 
Consuming bitterness of this kind spends itself in 
blaming, often with high injustice, the traveller who, 
much surprised by variations of mood to which he 
holds no key, is often puzzled how to read her real 
meaning. " I am not content with your friendship," 
she writes. " It was cold and thoughtless not to 
tell me why you failed in your promise to write 
from Dresden. . . . And then — shall I say it ? — I 
am wounded that you should thank me for my 
interest in you. Do you call that response ? You 
think me very unjust, very difficult to please. I 
am not so, but I am just a woman — very true, very 
ill, and very unhappy. Did I hide from you my 
feelings or my thoughts, there were nothing left to 
tell." "You are young," she resumes, a few weeks 
later; "you have known love, and you have sujffered ; 
therefore you claim a sensitive nature. Your claim 
is baseless." 

Complaints and reproaches of this nature fill 
Julie's pen from henceforward ; but they are still 
passing clouds, and quickly dispelled by her love. 
Each backward step is followed by an advance, and 
the fear of having offended her friend inspires as 
constant revelations of her love, until, further pre- 
tence becoming impossible, she loyally confesses 
the passion which nothing may withstand. Of such 



JULIE CONFESSES TO GUIBERT 311 

avowals, few, surely, have found more charming and 
delicate expression. " I love you too much to wish 
to restrain my feeling, and to need ask your pardon 
is better than not to have deserved it. With you I 
have no vanity. I approach the state of nature with 
the warmth and good faith of the savage, and herein 
I confess no duties towards my friend, for neither this 
world nor its pains have yet corrupted my heart. 
Do not quibble ; give me all you can. You will 
see that I shall not abuse the gift, and you will see 
how well I can love ! My life is my love for you ; 
mine only knowledge this — how to love ! " There 
is tenderness again under the apparent rudeness of 
this: "I accept none of your praises, and that — 
I astonish you ! — because they do not praise me. 
What do I care that you do not think me stupid ? 
This is a strange thing, yet one true withal — you 
are he whom alone in all the world I do not care 
to please.'' And finally we see her cast away all 
pride, and in suppliant terms implore, in default of 
tenderness, a little kindness and pity. " Remember 
that you owe something to my misfortunes. I 
am unhappy and ill. Do these things not appeal 
to your kindness '^ Yet will I repay you with 
gratitude infinite. A poor motive, is not this, and 
a pitiable feeling ? " 

This language, so undisguisedly that of love, 
is not to be mistaken. Still timid, perhaps, the 
passion is yet full-grown, and already claims exclu- 
sive possession of her heart. Any doubt which 
Guibert might retain on the point could not outlast 
the deep suffering with which Julie regards his con- 



312 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

tinued connection with Madame de Montsauge — a 
name constantly mentioned in her letters, and a con- 
nection which evokes her painful curiosity. She will 
know whether a letter from his mistress arrived by the 
same post as her own, and which of the two he read 
first? "You must classify us. Give me my place, 
and, since I have no liking for change, let it be 
moderately good. I shall not encroach on demesnes 
on which you tolerate that unfortunate person." 
Often, too, she bewails the lot of a superior man 
tied to so uncomprehending a person. ** How 
comes it that this woman does not love you to dis- 
traction, as you desire to be loved, as you should 
be loved ? For what else does she reserve her soul 
or her life ? I am sure that she has neither taste 
nor feeling. She should love you, were it only for 
vanity's sake. . . . But what is this to me ? Either 
you are satisfied, or you love her harmful influ- 
ence!" These are Julie's own words, and she 
could scarcely have painted a clearer picture of the 
growth of the jealous passion which was to become 
the worst torment of her latter days. 

Jealous pangs were not the only anxiety of 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse at this time. She can- 
not conceal her engrossing fear lest her intimacy 
with Guibert, innocent though it be, may become 
suspect by the gossips, and the news of it travel to 
Madrid and bring despair to her faithful lover. 
"Chastellux," she writes, when this friend has one 
day made a discreet allusion to her new "interest," 
"maintains that I love you dearly. How does he 
know? Have you told him?" Julie was still more 



HER FEAR OF DISCOVERY 313 

alarmed when Madame de Boufflers told a large 
company of people, assembled in her own house, 
that Guibert was estranged from Madame de Mont- 
sauge on account of a new and unknown flame. He 
was travelling, she added, in order to ** get over it." 
"After numerous interesting conjectures as to who 
she could be, I was asked whether I did not know 
you well, and how much I loved you, since I re- 
mained so silent? Certainly, said I, I love him well, 
for this is the inevitable consequence of knowing him 
at all. Then, you do know who she is ? — all about 
it, in fact ? Certainly not : I know nothing at all 
about it!'' The mere thought of this scene and 
its possible openings for scandal terrified Julie, who 
implored Guibert never to mention her name and 
scrupulously to destroy her letters. " I can see 
them tumbling from the regular budgets that you 
pull from your pockets, and your carelessness makes 
me shudder." Her fears were certainly justified, 
else the passage just quoted would never have found 
place in these pages. She, unfortunately, was more 
prudent ; very few of Guibert's letters of this period 
are to be found. The few which do exist, however, 
read in the light of passages from Julie's own, permit 
us to conjecture in what measure he reciprocated 
the great tenderness of which he was the object, 
notwithstanding that she was herself in some doubt 
upon the point. ''What do you think of a heart 
which gives itself before it is sure of welcome ? " 
Guibert's first feeling about this seems to have lain 
between surprise and something akin to uneasiness. 
He appears disconcerted by this headlong passion. 



314 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

this manner of loving so new to him, and until now 
unknown. Neither the frivolous gallantry to which 
he has been used, nor the calm and tolerant affection 
of Madame de Montsauge, had prepared him for 
this impetuous flood. He tacked and retreated, 
wrote at rare intervals, and, when Julie complained 
of his silence, excused himself clumsily : " I say 
continually ' To-morrow I will write.' But the days 
pass, and I have written to no one. When you do 
not hear from me, be sure, once for all, that I am 
dead to the whole world." 

Guibert, at this time, evinced a gift for avoiding 
the personal note — any note which can compromise 
a man, indeed. His letters retailed stories and de- 
scriptions interesting without doubt, but so banal 
in character that Mademoiselle de Lespinasse might 
safely relate them to her regular friends, even to the 
Marquis de Mora. " You tell me so little of your- 
self," ran a sad reproach, " that your letters might 
be meant for any of the ladies of your acquaintance. 
Mine could have but one address!" His ear was 
deaf to this. Pretending that he cannot understand, 
his answer saw in these transparent avowals no 
more than the assurance of friendship : "I cherish 
your advice, and think with pleasure that it means 
that you will be glad to see me again. I beg you 
to take care of yourself until I return. Try to calm 
yourself. . . . Friendship such as I feel, or rather 
such as you have inspired in me, has greater claims 
upon me than you can imagine. ... I love your 
friendship as it is ; its warmth makes my happiness, 
and does not, I hope, diminish your own." But in 



HER JEALOUSY 315 

the pleasure with which he anticipates again seeing 
Julie, he is careful to include d'Alembert : " I rejoice 
in Monsieur d'Alembert's friendship for me, and 
shall be delighted to see him again ! " 

Upon one point, however, Julie has leave for 
satisfaction. Guibert criticises Madame de Mont- 
sauge — her head and her heart. "What do you 
think," he writes, " of an affection which should be 
much stronger than yours, and is so far behind it ? 
Ah ! do not enlighten me — you would distress me 
too much. . . . Do you think I would not exchange 
her mind for yours — if I were able ? " Yet the next 
line destroys the effect of these words, for it links dis- 
dained mistress and new friend as equals. " What a 
ridiculous list is this of those who are preferred to 
you ! I give you my word of honour that you and 
Madame de Montsauge are the first objects of my 
thoughts. I could not say to which I write first ; 
to-day it happens to be ' you.' " 

Amidst these misunderstandings and disagree- 
ments, Guibert's journey drew to its close. Having 
exhausted Prussia, Silesia, and Austria, Julie heard 
with despair that he purposed visiting St. Peters- 
burg. " I hate Russia, now that you want to go 
there. Before, I hated only the Russians." To 
Russia, however, he did not go, nor yet to Sweden ; 
but Mademoiselle de Lespinasse was suspicious, de- 
spite her joy at the news. " Why did you abandon 
your Northern journey ? I cannot believe that it 
is only in order to curtail your absence. You have 
sacrificed Sweden because some one has asked 
this of you, and you are content. . . . But, what- 



3i6 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

ever be the cause, I bless the person or thing 
which hastens your return." At the end of August, 
Guibert was about to leave Vienna on his return. 
Three silent weeks ensued, and when Julie again 
received a letter, its news was little calculated to 
soothe her feelings. Upon the very eve of de- 
parture, the writer had fallen ill of severe intestinal 
fever. He had scarcely begun to recover from this 
serious illness when, thanks to a confusion of names 
— the police read "Guibert" instead of " Gulibert " 
— the author of the " Tactique " found himself im- 
plicated in the obscure political affair which had 
already sent Favier and Dumouriez to the Bastille. 
Failing to prove his innocence, Guibert fully ex- 
pected arrest when he should cross the frontier. 

Julie's reception of this news may be imagined. 
The political complication troubled her not at all, 
for her powerful connections promptly cleared Gui- 
bert of all suspicion. The news of his illness, and 
the fear that he had not told the worst of it, were 
other matters. She was afflicted beyond descrip- 
tion. " From the tone of your letter, I see that you 
are very weak, very pale, and very despondent. . . . 
In the name of friendship, take no risks. Sleep, 
rest, and do not in your haste to arrive the sooner 
risk the chance of never returning ! " This was wise 
counsel, and she probably wished it unsaid when 
the first week of October brought another letter — 
still from Vienna — in which the writer expressed 
himself uncertain as to whether he should return 
to Paris or yet further prolong his travels. " Come 
back ! come back ! to go on would be criminal^ 
Julie's urgent entreaty bore fruit in a reply dated 



HER SELF-REPROACHES 317 

the 9th of October : " This time I am really coming, 
and that you may feel quite sure of it, I report that 
I have had no fever for four days, that my carriage 
is waiting, and that I shall have entered it within 
two minutes. . . ." He expected to travel by short 
stages, but the end of the month should see him 
home without fail. Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
was overjoyed by this promise, until jealousy 
prompted the fear that he might first visit La 
Breteche and Madame de Montsauge. " When I 
see you, you will doubtless still be engrossed with 
your meeting with her whom you love. Acknow- 
ledge that you will be further from me that day than 
you were at Breslau. But why should I object ! 
Come to me after that excitement has passed, 
and I shall be only too happy." Guibert good- 
humouredly tries to dispel this fear. " I shall see 
you before 'her.' This is doubtless because Paris 
lies first on my road, yet were the reverse true, I 
would still come straight to you, did I think that your 
suffering, your health, or your soul demanded it." 

The feelings with which Mademoiselle de Lespi- 
nasse awaited this meeting were indeed tumultuous, 
for love and fear, desire and jealousy, were strug- 
gling for the mastery. She confessed so much to the 
man who henceforth held her life between his hands. 
" My remorse at yielding to my liking for you now 
seems my reproach. . . . Did I then deceive my- 
self? Do I do so now? By my faith, I cannot tell. 
Your soul is not crushed by sorrow. Judge then 
for me, and when we meet you shall yourself instruct 
me whether I must applaud or deplore those feelings 
wherewith you have inspired me." 



CHAPTER XII 

Guibert returns to Paris — Julie's passionate outburst — Guibert breaks with 
Madame de Montsauge — Soirie of February lo, 1774 — Tragic coinci- 
dence — First excitement after the fact- — ^Juhe closes her salo7t — First dis- 
illusionment — ^Jealous suspicions on meeting Madame de Boufflers and 
Madame de Montsauge — Scenes between the lovers — ^Julie's despair at 
her own weakness — Serious relapse of the Marquis de Mora — d'Alem- 
bert's attempts to bring him back to Paris — Mora's secret doubt of Julie's 
faithfulness — He sets out to rejoin her — Accident consequent on fatigue 
of the journey — Final letter to Julie — His death — -Julie's anguish and 
attempt to commit suicide — Persistent remorse — Her letters to the dead 
man — Surprising patience of Guibert. 

More entirely even than before his return did 
Guibert now exercise his irresistible attraction upon 
Julie. Naturally, as it were, and certainly at the 
cost of no effort, this man could release her soul 
from its chaos of contending feelings, lead it from 
doubt to hope, from hope to rapture, or consign it 
to nethermost despair, and all in a moment of time. 
He returned from his travels with redoubled fame, 
for had he not met with the finest reception on all 
sides, even from the great Frederick, whose inti- 
macy he had enj'oyed for a week. Voltaire, after 
his visit to Ferney, had called him a "great man," 
and the opinion was more than ever unanimous that 
his name would figure among the most eminent in 
history. He certainly would have been the last to 
doubt this verdict, and it was in perfect good faith 
that he said, while sitting for his portrait, " No man 
should be painted to whom posterity will not erect 

a statue." 

318 



GUIBERT'S PASSION 319 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse was not chiefly en- 
slaved by the brilliancy of this "genius." Although 
she admired him without reserve, she was some- 
times disquieted by the conviction that strong 
spirits like his must love rather as a pastime than 
because love is the cause and end of life. " I often 
see Monsieur de Guibert," she confides to Count 
de Crillon ; " I find him very charming, but he un- 
doubtedly describes himself when he says of his 
' Constable ' : 

' His talents moved him, and his soul weighed-down.' 

He has a devouring activity which quickly exhausts 
one interest after another, so that the engagements 
of others are to him weariness." 

Let Julie fear never so much, however, all doubt 
vanished at a glance from his glowing eyes, a tone 
of that eloquent voice, the ardent words of which 
thrilled her to the depths of her being. For Guibert 
had at last fallen under the spell of the "enchantress," 
her passion stirred in his veins, and he dreamed 
with her of ineffable raptures and unknown realms 
of joy. He assured Julie that he had definitely 
severed his relations with Madame de Montsauge, 
and we may imagine with what gratitude she 
repaid this sacrifice. He was free. Could woman 
ask more, or, having asked so much, delay yet 
another hour in yielding herself to the flood ? 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse had won her hope, 
yet it brought neither the calm of confidence nor the 
sweetness of surrender. Sick in mind and body, 
she was the victim of an incessant fever. " My 



320 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

health is detestable," she wrote a few days before 
Guibert returned ; " I cough myself to pieces, and 
the cough is so violent that I spit blood. My 
voice is gone, and so is my sleep — or almost so." 
Agitation and remorse at the thought of Mora, 
and her yearning for the continual presence of 
him whose occupations too often called him away, 
increased this hectic condition, and what few notes 
of this period survive contain repeated entreaties 
to him to come to her every day and every hour. 
" My friend, I am not to see you, and you tell me 
that this is none of your fault. Yet, had you the 
thousandth part of my desire for that meeting you 
were here and I were happy, for to me there is no 
alternative between him whom I love and loneli- 
ness. . . . Shall I see you in the morning or in the 
evening ? Better the morning, which comes earlier, 
and the evening, which lasts longer ! But give me 
that which you may ; I shall content me with it ! " 

Julie's inconceivable sensitiveness was wounded 
by the slightest forgetfulness or neglect, and corre- 
spondingly touched by the least attention. " My 
friend, I love you as you should be loved — to excess, 
to distraction, with rapture, with despair. For days 
you have tortured my soul, yet I saw you this morn- 
ing and all was forgotten. Nay ! it seemed to me 
that to love you with all my soul, to be ready to live 
and die for you, was not enough. Your desert is 
above even this ! " There is only one ending pos- 
sible when a man and woman thus write, nor was 
that end far distant. Julie's own letters are again 
the sources from whence her story is to be known. 



THE FATAL DAY 321 

Whether through the kindness of a friend or by- 
stretching her own finances, Julie de Lespinasse 
enjoyed the luxury of a box at the Opera during 
the winter season of 1774. It was a large box and 
a comfortable, with an ante-chamber in which to 
spend the time between the acts. Guibert had a 
standing invitation to share it, and he was usually 
the only guest. Side by side in the box, more often 
upon the " good sofa" in the elegant " boudoir" be- 
hind, the pair sat chatting, and as Guibert acknow- 
ledges, "listening very badly" to "The Village 
Wizard," " Vertumnus and Pomona," or the other 
fashionable pieces of the day. By Julie's frequent 
confession, the "divine art of song" was prone to 
move her mind and senses. Its influence was not 
diminished when her feelings were keyed to the 
present pitch. Thus the opera, on the evening of 
February loth, proved traitor when its conclusion 
found the pair seated together in the "boudoir." 
In the ensuing silence their lips were drawn to- 
gether ; they drank, as Julie writes, the cup of 
" delicious poison." 

By a tragic coincidence, on the same day and 
at the same hour, the Marquis de Mora was again 
struck down, in his distant home at Madrid, by a 
fresh last attack of his malady — a terrible last re- 
lapse, after which his remaining days were no more 
than a long-drawn death. Exactly one year later, 
on February 10, 1775, Julie was startled by the 
thought of this anniversary. " It strikes midnight, my 
friend. My blood is frozen by sudden remembrance ! 
. . . By what fatality is it that the keenest and 



322 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

sweetest joy is linked with the most crushing mis- 
fortune ! Great God ! A year ago, at this time, 
Monsieur de Mora was stricken to death, and I, at 
the same instant, three hundred miles away, was 
more cruel and more guilty than the ignorant bar- 
barians who killed him ! I die of reo^ret. . . . Fare- 
well, my friend ; I should not have loved you ! " 

The news of Mora's death travelled slowly, and 
did not reach Paris until March. Thus, for a few 
ecstatic weeks, Julie rejoiced, untroubled by the 
terror and remorse which were to follow. Her 
rapture forgot all qualms, and her tongue echoed 
her rapture: " How is it with you?" she wrote on 
the day succeeding the fatal opera. " Shall I see 
you ? Ah ! deprive me of nothing. Time is so 
short, and I set such price upon the hours shared 
with you ! My friend, there is no longer opium in 
my blood or in my head. There is worse — worse — 
matter to make me bless Heaven and cling to life, 
were it sure to be returned with equally intense 
feeling by you. . . . Yes, you should love me to 
distraction. I exact nothing, I pardon everything, 
I am never angry. My friend, I am perfect, for I 
love you perfectly." ** I have thought of you con- 
stantly," she begins anew, a few days later, ** I am 
so engrossed in you that I understand the feeling 
of the devotee for his God." Eighteen months later, 
recalling this period of infatuation, she repeated this 
comparison. " You speak of Lucifer, who aspired 
to equal God. I did outstrip him once, for then I 
would not have changed places with him ! . . . 
Every instant of my life, O friend, I suffer, I love 



EARLY HAPPINESS 323 

you, I await you." Was ever note briefer or more 
eloquent than this last ? 

For a while no thought of her " treason," of " the 
sacrifice of her virtue," of all those things which 
were afterwards such torture, troubled these delirious 
hours, when her whole being was engulfed in the 
flood of passion. " February loth has sealed my fate 
— to love you or to die." Her nature was so changed 
that she believed herself for ever free of her pursuing 
weaknesses — ^jealousy and suspicion, and a chance 
meeting with Madame de Montsauge strengthened 
the conviction. Julie admired her rival's face and 
figure, and hoped, she says, that her character was 
correspondingly amiable. " I believe it, and even 
desire it. Am I generous ? " This generosity even 
inspires her to take an interest in the young daughter 
of her erstwhile foe. " Here at last is the book. 
But I give it to you only on condition that you give 
it to Madame de Montsauge. Though her daughter 
is older than Emilie^ it will still be useful to her. 
There be many such beplumed ladies who need it, 
but they could not profit by it, for to them all good 
things must ever, like their plumes, be over their 
heads." 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse could no m.ore 
continue in such a mood than could intercourse be- 
tween two people of such opposite characters remain 
peaceful. Julie, we know, was immoderate, abso- 
lute, giving herself utterly and exacting nothing less ; 
Guibert was a man who craved action and movement, 

^ Les ConversaHons (VEfnilie, par Madame d'Epinay, then recently 
published. 



324 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

and who also brought to love the levity and egoism 
of a nature ruined by too numerous conquests. Her 
penetrating intelligence was quick to recognise how 
deep a gulf separated them. " Amusement, occu- 
pation, and action fill your life sufficiently. My 
happiness is in you, and in you alone." 

Time could only amplify the result of such essen- 
tial differences. Julie's passion left her no room for 
other interests ; she no longer found pleasure in the 
world, either fashionable or intellectual. " Do not 
tell me that society has resources. It is to me an 
insupportable constraint, and if I could persuade 
Monsieur d'Alembert to leave me, my door would 
be closed." This new hunger for solitude, quiet, 
and silence led her to be very unjust even to those 
whose friendship she had once most valued. She 
can now perceive only their arrogance, foolishness, 
and conceit — " the collection and assortment which 
has peopled hell and small houses for a thousand 
centuries. This," she continues, " filled my room 
last evening, and that the walls still stand and 
the floor still bears are things surely portentous ! 
Surrounded by all these prigs, blockheads, pedants, 
fools, and abominable persons, with whom I have 
spent my day, I have thought only of you and of 
your follies. I have needed you and longed for 
you." Here is another pleasant description of her 
old associates : " Heavens! how I hate and despise 
them, and how terrible my life of the last ten years 
would seem to me now 1 I have seen the petty 
vices of these people at such close range, I have so 
often been the victim of their small and ugly passions, 



EARLY SHADOWS 325 

that I hold them In invincible disgust, and a fear 
which would find entire Isolation preferable to their 
horrible society." 

Guibert, on the contrary, could never dispense 
with the tumult that she so abhors. He must have 
a public, the applause and admiration of his kind. 
" You are not made for intimacy," she murmurs 
sadly; "you need the action of the outside world, 
the hubbub of society. It is not your vanity which 
demands this, but your activity." Alone with any 
one, even his mistress, he feels an unconquerable 
lassitude, is visibly chilled, and allows the conver- 
sation to languish, sometimes almost falls asleep. 
"Last evening," she wrote one day, "resembled 
those insipid novels which make both the author 
and the reader yawn. I shall have to quote the 
King of Prussia on a more memorable occasion, and 
say, 'We will do better another time.'" Yet, in 
spite of these humiliations, her morbid craving for 
his society abases her pride to the point of begging 
for a few more moments of his time, " Do you 
know why I prefer to see you In the evening rather 
than during the rest of the day ? Because the 
lateness of the hour arrests your activity ! You can 
no longer fly to catch Madame So-and-so, or to see 
Gluck, or to do any of the useless things which 
seem to interest you only because they enable you 
the sooner to leave me." 

A persistence which would always be strange 
becomes the stranger since Julie was every day 
more clearly disillusioned as to the heart which 
she had supposed her own. She knew it within 



326 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

three months. " How could I have been so mis- 
taken, he have so deceived me? How did my 
spirit fail to restrain my heart, and how can that 
heart for ever sit to judge you, yet be no less 
eternally your slave at call ? " A single doubt as 
to Guibert's utter incapacity for real feeling is now 
inadmissible, or that love, in his kind, is more than 
" the accident of his age." Give him the ideal 
woman, all grace and endowed with all perfections 
— " the face of Madame Forcalquier at twenty, 
Madame de Brionne's nobility, the spirit of Madame 
de Montsauge grafted upon that of Madame de 
Boufflers " — not for a moment could he make even 
this ideal happy. The Julie who knew this could 
expect nothing for herself. Conviction became so 
strong that rarely indeed does she dare to speak 
openly, or to give expression to the deep springs of 
her being. " I speak to you neither of my regret nor 
of my remembrances, nor, crueller far, may I show 
you more than a part of my love for you, while my 
soul must contain the passion with which you fill it. 
. . . For I must repeat this thing, * He could not 
respond, he could not understand, and the pain of 
it would kill me.' " 

Mistrust naturally followed fast upon lost illu- 
sions, and dormant jealousy lifted a head more 
active and more unruly than ever. Guibert was un- 
deniably pursued by her sex ; there was no need to 
search for rivals, yet Julie's skill in forging her own 
deceptions was marvellous. Madame de Boufflers 
was early suspect, and possibly not without cause, 
for her exquisite charm and wit we already know, 



JULIE'S JEALOUSY 327 

no less than her skill in the art of pleasing, and her 
lifelong and consistent desire for admiration. Her 
letter written to Guibert while in Germany, and 
afterwards found among the papers of Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse, shows her cleverness in finding the 
weak spot in this conceited man : " Of my pre- 
sumption, sir, I do confess me ; yet, new as is our 
acquaintance, I claim the rights of old friendship. 
You have directed letters hitherward, and I repine 
in secret, for never a one is sent to me. I cannot 
feel surprise at the King of Prussia's reception of 
you, but I do admire your noble confession of con- 
fusion in his presence and of your respect for him. 
. . . Keep your noble enthusiasm. Never be per- 
suaded that man's natural gait is to crawl in the 
mud. A spirit like this of yours is a never-ending 
pleasure. A small share in it you have permitted 
me. In this lies the supreme happiness of my 
life, yet I may not dare speak of it to any one 
but you. . . ." 

Guibert's frequent calls on Madame de Boufflers, 
after his return from Prussia, led to instant gossip. 
The rumour of course reached Julie's ears, and 
produced intense agitation: "Abbe Morellet said 
a few days ago, in the innocence of his heart, that 
you were much enamoured of Madame de Boufflers, 
that you were much preoccupied with her and with 
the desire of pleasing her, &c. All this seems so 
probable that I feel I ought to complain that you 
have not confided in me, even though the truth be 
something less than report says. I ask from you but 
one satisfaction, the truth, and be assured that there 



328 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

is nothing that I cannot bear to hear. You may- 
think me weak, and wish to spare me, but the fact is 
not so. Never, on the contrary, have I felt stronger. 
I have the strength to suffer." Neither Guibert's 
denial, nor the disdainful tone in which he takes 
care to speak of Madame de Boufflers, availed to 
banish Julie's suspicion, and her letters are full of 
stinging allusions and veiled reproaches on this sub- 
ject. But the Countess is only a slight annoyance, a 
surface grievance ; Julie's real torment, which gnaws 
constantly at her heart, is jealousy of Madame de 
Montsauge. Though Guibert kept faith and were 
no longer her lover, he remained a friend of his old 
mistress, and confessed a regard for her which was 
more than Julie could bear. "I notice that you 
take pleasure in paying attentions to Madame de 
Montsauge. . . . You give or lend to her any- 
thing that interests you, while I must ever endure 
the other extreme — forgetfulness, neglect, refusal. 
Three months ago you promised me one of your 
books, and I have had to borrow it of another. It 
is doubtless well that the sufferer from this ungra- 
ciousness should be myself. There is justice in this, 
and I do not complain — except of its excess." This 
is the voice of Julie's bitterness. Despair follows 
fast : " When you read this, I wager that you will 
already have received a note saying : 

' For thee I mourn the transports of my heart ; 
Where is thy joy, if Montsauge lack her part ? ' 

Ah, believe her, restore to her her tranquillity, and, 
if possible, be happy. This is the wish, the desire. 



JULIE'S JEALOUSY 329 

and the prayer of the unhappy creature to whom is 
ever present the terrible inscription on the Gate of 
Hell — ' All ye who enter here, leave hope behind.' " 
In May, Guibert spent several days at La 
Breteche, the chateau of her who inspired Julie 
with such fear and hatred. This first real separa- 
tion since the fateful tenth of February would have 
cruelly wounded Julie even if her rival had not been 
the cause of it. Her pain may be read between 
the lines of her utter silence. To Guibert, in Paris, 
she writes upon any and every pretext ; Guibert 
absent received not one single line, and Julie made 
the reason for this very clear in the bitter note 
which met his return : " Do not oblige me to say 
why I cannot write to you where you are. I dare 
not own the reason, even to myself ; it is a thought, 
a feeling, upon which I dare not reflect — a martyr- 
dom horrible to me, which humiliates me, such as I 
have never before known." Next day duly brought 
the first of many quarrels between the lovers. Julie 
raged, Guibert was cold and disdainful, and when 
they had parted she wrote this miserable note : 
" Sunday, midnight. — You have, then, forgotten 
and left to her own devices this fury, this fool, and 
wicked one ! The unhappy creature passed her 
day in Limbo, for she awaited an angel of consola- 
tion, and he did not come. He was undoubtedly 
making some celestial creature happy, and he him- 
self was so intoxicated with the joys of heaven as to 
exclude any possible remembrance of me." This 
thought revived her anger. " If, in truth, he is 
happy, I hope from the bottom of my heart that 



330 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

nothing will bring him back to me, for I am so 
unjust as to hate his happiness, and to hope that 
repentance and remorse will pursue him. . . . Such 
are the desires, such is the hope of the soul which 
has best loved him, and of which the dearest wish 
would be fulfilled by death." 

Quarrels of this sort are the reverse of astonish- 
ing. The one strange thing really was that, amidst 
repeated shocks, and despite so many disappoint- 
ments and reasons for disagreement, intercourse of 
any kind should have been possible between two 
beings so radically unlike. More than once Julie 
herself considers this problem with unspeakable 
anguish : " I cannot explain your hold upon me. 
You are not my friend ; that you can never be. I 
have no confidence in you. You have done me 
the greatest wrong which can afflict a virtuous soul. 
You are depriving me, perhaps for ever, of the only 
consolation which Heaven had granted to my remain- 
ing days" (her marriage with Mora), "yet I think 
of this, I contemplate it, and I am drawn to you by a 
feeling which I loathe, but which has the power of 
a fate or of a curse upon me." ..." My friend, did 
we live in the days of magic, I should explain my 
feeling for you by saying that you have cast over me 
a spell which has taken me out of myself." Better 
than she cares to own even to herself, Julie knows the 
secret of this " magic " which draws her to the man 
throupfh whom she has known love in all its fulness. 
" I know, after all, that I shall find no solace in 
your soul, my friend ; it is empty of tenderness 
and affection. You have but one means to banish 



LAST DAYS OF MORA 331 

my ills — the intoxication which is a worse remedy 
than the worst of my misfortunes." She has drunk 
of this cup, and her lips are dry with thirst 
of that wherewith they were quenched. This 
is the secret tragedy which now begins to break 
down her strength. Humiliation for her fall, the con- 
stantly recurring struggle between soul and body, 
sense and reason, now torment and sap her being 
until she succumbs at no long distant date. What 
has been shown to us as uneasiness and shame 
to-day became on the morrow an incurable sore 
of her soul — the just and terrible vengeance, she 
thinks, of him whose tenderness she betrayed. 

After the serious relapse of February, Mora 
remained in a deplorable state of mental prostra- 
tion and physical collapse ; nor did the death of his 
mother from the same disease which was consuming 
her son, better his friends' hopes for his recovery. 
He himself, so long deluded as to his health, began 
now for the first time to fear the worst. He spat 
blood incessantly, and was never without fever. 
The doctors of Madrid, assembled at his bedside, 
had recourse to the most violent remedies — enor- 
mous doses of iron and quinine and constant 
bleedings — the latter a Spanish custom. " In no 
place in the world do they bleed their sick as in 
Madrid ! " cried d' Alembert at the news of these sad 
details. Justly fearful of this treatment, Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse's " secretary " renewed the 
one idea which recurs like a refrain in his letters to 
the Due de Villa Hermosa — to snatch the sick man 
from ignorant hands, from the "dry and burning" 



332 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

climate of Madrid, and to bring him to Paris, to the 
care of enlightened practitioners. " I hastened," he 
writes, "to convey the news to Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse, who was waiting for it with a fear and 
terror which alarmed me. Nowhere in the world 
can Monsieur de Mora be more beloved than in 
this little corner of ours. . . . Remember that the 
mistakes of the Spanish doctors have already well- 
nigh cost Monsieur de Mora his life. What promise 
have we that they will be less blind or do better 
hereafter ? To bring him back to France would 
be a deed worthy of your friendship for him, and 
you will be able to say, not only that you have 
assured the health of your friend, but that you have 
saved his life, . . . This plan seems to me very 
simple," he again insists, " when I think of your 
affection for the Marquis de Mora, and of the urgent 
necessity of removing him from that fatal air, and 
of rescuing him from the doctors who have poisoned 
him." 

It is very probable, as Marmontel says in his 
" Memoires," that this thought was inspired by 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, and certainly none 
could blame her for it when Mora's friends were 
united in the belief that a continued sojourn in the 
Castilian capital must entail his almost immediate 
death. ** I am discouraged by Mora's relapse," 
wrote Galiani from Naples. " The air of Madrid 
is too rough ; his lungs cannot survive it." This 
opinion was supported by the famous Lorry, a 
physician dear to the " women and the wits " of 
Paris, and so fashionable that, when he was suffering 



HIS SECRET DOUBTS 333 

from the gout, patients came down to consult him 
at his carriage door. He had already attended 
Mora in Paris, and in letter after letter and note 
after note, half in French and half in Latin, he 
adjured him to leave a pernicious climate and to 
come promptly and place himself in his skilful 
hands. 

Even these pressing appeals would not, perhaps, 
have determined the dying man to undertake a 
long and tiresome journey, had he not been secretly 
influenced by another motive. Without definite in- 
formation, and guided only by the intuitive instincts 
of deep affection, he was vaguely aware of a change 
in Julie's heart. " I remember," she confesses with 
tears, "how I dared to form the abominable inten- 
tion, how I resolved to bring death into my friend's 
heart, to abandon him, to cease to love him as he 
yearned to be loved, as he deserved to be loved." 
Despite this intention, however, she continued to 
postpone the cruel confession, the results of which 
could not fail to prove sadly detrimental to one in 
Mora's feeble condition. But her pen was cus- 
tomarily too free and sincere to be able to hide the 
perplexity of her soul, and Mora, surprised and 
anxious, vainly searched her troubled letters for the 
warmth and enthusiasm which once rewarded his 
love. " He knew doubt for the first time," writes 
Julie again ; " he passed from anxiety to fear. His 
letters as well as his heart were full of sadness." 
Far, however, from discouraging him, this terrible 
suspicion only strengthened his firm determination 
to recover his inconstant friend. " This," affirms 



334 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, " was the great reason 
which precipitated his departure from Madrid. He 
risked his life, he tore himself from a family and 
friends who adored him. He came, he said, to 
warm again a heart frozen by absence, and to revive 
a soul disheartened by sadness. He relied upon 
the warmth of his perfect tenderness to give him 
strength for this terrible ordeal." 

On the 8th of May, Julie writes to Condorcet : 
" Monsieur de Mora should have started for Paris 
on the fourth of this month if he kept to his inten- 
tion of the twenty-fifth of last month. He had then 
a severe cold, and had coughed blood a few days 
before, so that I am sure of nothing except of his 
will and desire in the matter. ... I must see him 
to believe in his return." When these lines were 
written, Mora was already five days advanced on 
his journey to see her. He left Madrid on May 
3rd, accompanied by two servants and his regular 
physician, Master Navarro. A note, scribbled in 
the hurry of leaving, informed his friend of the fact : 
"Madrid, May 3rd, 1774. — I take carriage to see 
you." In order to avoid the fatigue and jolting of 
bad roads, he travelled very slowly and by short 
stages. The first days passed without accident, 
and hope grew in his heart. " I have that in me 
to make you forget all your sufferings on my 
account," he wrote to Julie on the tenth, after a 
week's travelling ; but the same day saw his re- 
maining strength exhausted by renewed haemor- 
rhage. His journey was now a protracted agony, but 
he still sought to push on. " Bordeaux, May 23rd, 



JULIE'S REMORSE 335 

1774. — Just arrived, and almost dead," was his next 
message. 

It is impossible to describe the dread and horror 
which overwhelmed Julie's soul when this news 
reached Paris. Her anguish was such that she 
could not conceal it even from Guibert. After a 
nervous attack, which left her almost lifeless for four 
whole hours, she confessed to him : " I have a sort 
of fear and terror which unsettles my reason. I await 
Wednesday, and it seems as if death itself could 
not quench the pain with which I look for news 
of the loss that I fear. . . . It is beyond my strength 
to think that he whom I love, and who loved me, 
will not be able to hear me, will no longer come to 
my aid." To Suard, her habitual confidant, she 
poured out her distress with still greater freedom : 
"To-morrow's news will perhaps release me from 
life. This thought is terrible, and never leaves me. 
I can now see Monsieur de Mora only under the 
aspect of death." A second note contains still clearer 
suggestions of suicide, an idea that henceforth 
possesses her brain : " It seems to me that I have 
no longer anything to care about. You know 
what that means, but you do not know all. No, I 
can no longer hope for calm, for peace. . . . You 
will forgive me that I take small heed of reason 
and moderation. If I wished to dwell with my 
fellows, I should have to consider these virtues, but 
I tell you that I wish to remain but one moment 
longer in this sad country called Life. Do you 
need clearer insight into my thoughts, into that 
which I shall do ? " 



336 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

The dark forebodings of Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse were but too well founded. In a room 
in a Bordeaux inn, the heir of the Fuentes, a gaunt 
creature racked by suffering, struggled with fierce 
but vain energy against the doom which denied 
him the consolation of again beholding his friend. 
For three whole days Mora wrestled against death, 
fully conscious all the while. The supreme hour 
seems to have re-awakened the faith of his youth, 
for the cure of a neighbouring parish certainly 
administered the last sacraments to the dying man. 
On May 27th he collected his failing strength to 
trace these faltering lines, full of despair and ten- 
derness : "I was on my way to you, and I must 
die. What a horrible doom ! . . . But you have 
loved me, and the thought of you still gives me 
happiness. I die for you. . . ." 

The Marquis de Mora was buried on the next 
day, with a certain "pomp," in the now vanished 
church of Notre Dame de Puy-Paulin. Two rings 
were removed from his finger — the one containing 
a strand of Julie's hair, the other of plain gold, 
engraved with the device "All passes, but love 
endures." The Duchesse de Villa Hermosa sent 
the first of these to Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, 
who afterwards restored it to her by will. Both rings 
are still among the heirlooms of this noble house. 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse learned the news 
on Thursday, June 2nd. " I should have been too 
fortunate," she writes, " could my life have ended 
on Wednesday, June ist." Her first cry was that 
she had killed the man who loved her, that she had 



SHE ATTEMPTS SUICIDE 2>?>7 

pronounced his " death-warrant," and nothing could 
afterwards wholly efface this dreadful impression. 
Remorse added itself ruthlessly to the anguish of 
her sorrow, and her repentance was not confined to 
the simple fact of her faithlessness. Of that at least 
he knew nothing. " My God, to what am I come ! 
how have I fallen ! But of that he was ignorant." 
Her most cruel remorse was evoked by the thought 
that the unconscious coldness of her letters had 
shaken the security and confidence of this faithful 
heart. '* What a frightful thought ! I have dis- 
turbed his last days ; and fearing that he had cause 
to reproach me, he risked his life for me. His last 
impulse was one of tenderness and love." 

All she has suffered since her earliest youth 
seems to her of no account compared to her despair 
at this thought. " A moment has made thirty-seven 
years of suffering as nothing!" Her unsettled brain 
could see no escape from this intolerable torture ex- 
cept through death. That she indubitably purposed 
to poison herself is proved by at least a score of 
passages in her correspondence with Guibert, who 
was, indeed, a witness to the fact and an actor in 
the drama. Ambiguous language leaves us in un- 
certainty as to whether the drug was already taking 
effect when Guibert's care recalled her to life in 
spite of herself, or whether he arrived at the exact 
moment when she was on the point of swallowing 
the fatal draught, and just in time to snatch it from 
her lips. In either case, if she owed the prolonga- 
tion of her life to Guibert, she certainly felt no 
gratitude on that account. On the contrary, she 

Y 



338 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

afterwards reproached him in the harshest and most 
bitter terms for his injudicious zeal. 

So alarminsf a condition of weakness followed 
Julie's fever that Madame Necker's letter of sym- 
pathy was answered by d'Alembert thus : " She is 
unable personally to express to you her appreciation 
of your kindness. Her health is very poor, and 
she is in a state of despondency which does not 
permit her to enjoy even the solace of friendship. 
I regret upon my own account," he continues, "that 
sensitive, virtuous, and high-minded man. His 
memory and my sorrow at his loss will remain 
graven upon my soul." D'Alembert spoke from 
the heart ; he was second only to Julie in his grief 
at Mora's untimely end, and the pages in which he 
describes his own sorrow might be signed by Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse. " My deep feeling did not 
at first permit me to express my personal grief at 
the loss of this friend, who must ever live in my 
memory as the most perfect being that I have ever 
known. ... His mind always communicated to 
mine an energy which it will no longer know ; 
but I shall ever remember those priceless moments 
when a soul so pure, so noble, so strong, and so 
sweet loved to mingle with mine." Drawn together 
by this common affliction, Julie and d'Alembert 
were for a while reunited in something like the 
touching harmony of their earlier intimacy. With 
tender gratitude she writes : " Monsieur d'Alembert 
has, of his own accord, written to Monsieur de 
Fuentes. He was affected to tears while reading 
this letter to me, and I was no less moved." 



HER GRIEF 339 

Julie de Lespinasse had been faithless to her 
friend in his life ; no woman was ever more true to 
the memory of her loved dead than was she to that 
of the Marquis de Mora. Conscious of guilt towards 
him, never for a moment did she permit this painful 
thought to license its consignment to the convenient 
haven of oblivion, but for ever accused herself 
before the partaker in her " crime." Compassionate 
friends, who attributed her sadness to simple regret, 
irritated her until she was on the point of confessing 
the bitter truth. Suard paid her a visit of sympathy, 
and elicited for sole reply a brusque " I am unworthy 
of your sympathy," an answer of which he could 
never understand the meaning until the moment, 
twenty years later, when he read the published 
volume of her letters to Guibert. The " perfect 
and holy being" against whom she had sinned 
became an image ever at hand, would she invoke 
a more than usually potent instrument of self- 
abasement ; and when Guibert travelled to Bor- 
deaux a few months after Mora's death, he went 
strictly charged to collect every possible detail 
of the last painful scenes, that her sorrow might 
feed itself thereon. Luis Pignatelli, visiting Paris 
in the following year, was summoned by her, and 
compelled to relate every incident of his brother's 
last decline, although Julie's sufferings under this 
trial were so acute that she was completely pros- 
trated at its conclusion. " His presence killed 
me ; the sound of his voice made me shiver from 
head to foot. Horror and affection consume me 
by turns." This horror reached ?l clirnax when 



340 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

an erratic post brought her two letters, delayed 
these twelve months. Such a message from the 
grave sounded ominously in morbid ears, which 
received it as a summons to a new and fleshless 
meeting. 

This dwelling with melancholy memories and 
lugubrious imaginings kept Julie in a state of 
excitement bordering on delirium, in the more 
exalted or depressed hours of which she occasion- 
ally seized the pen, once used to trace her letters 
to Mora, and confided her feelings to "this shade 
which pursues her." " Do you know the first need 
of my soul when it has been violently agitated by 
passion or by sorrow? It is to write to Monsieur 
de Mora. I reanimate him, I bring him back to life ; 
my heart rests against his, my soul is made part 
with his ; the warmth and vigour of my blood defy 
death ; I see him ; he lives, he breathes for me, he 
hears me! My brain wanders, and is exalted to such 
a key that thought, no longer a child of the imagina- 
tion, is made truth itself! " At times she humbly 
invokes him, and supplicates for pardon : " Friend, 
if from the realms of death you hear me, be kind 
to my sorrow, to my repentance. I am guilty, I 
have sinned, but has not my crime been expiated 
by my despair ? I have lost you, and I live. I live ! 
Is that not sufficient punishment?" 

Her letters to Guibert are one long reminiscence 
of this earlier love. Between her lover and herself 
she incessantly raises the ghost of Mora, compar- 
ing the living with the dead, and always to the 
advantage of the latter — an unpleasant ordeal. 



HER GRIEF 341 

Guibert's patience under which was surely praise- 
less. Hardly, from time to time, did he risk timid 
remonstrance : " Write to me, my friend, even if 
your letter must be full of Monsieur de Mora." 
More often, he accepted her as he found her with 
the patient bearing of a man whose conscience is 
not wholly clear in respect of the things with which 
he is thus troubled. That his conscience was not 
untroubled the sequel will show. 



CHAPTER XIII 

Shaken health of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Consequent ill-temper — 
Guibert's tactlessness — His mysterious absence — Irritation of Julie and 
first threats of a rupture between them — Secret interview of Guibert 
with Madame de Montsauge — ^Jealous fury of Julie on discovering this 
— Her withering letter — Breach of several months' duration — Reconcilia- 
tion, but persistent vexation — Guibert's literary ambitions — Wise counsel 
from Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — The Constable is staged — ^Julie con- 
soles him for his disappointment — Guibert's projected marriage — Julie 
believes the scheme abandoned — Unexpected avowal by Guibert — His 
fiancee. Mademoiselle de Courcelles — ^Julie's despair — Scenes prior to 
the marriage — Departure of Guibert — The broken ring. 

The year following Mora's death was for Julie de 
Lespinasse one of tempest and misfortune. The 
shock of that loss affected a delicate constitution 
with strange power, and her frail body was racked 
with terrible suffering. Dizziness, headaches, per- 
petual insomnia, often proof against enormous doses 
of opium, nervous spasms, and "convulsions," re- 
duced her vitality to the lowest ebb. Her nerves 
suffered commensurately. Everything disturbed 
and wounded her, and aroused her suspicions ; 
never was even she so irritable and moody. 
Guibert's actions, words, and even his silence, 
were suspect to a jealousy which now amounted 
to disease, and needed but the slightest provocation 
to fall into insinuations, reproaches, and often the 
tears of anger, abruptly succeeded by transports 
of tenderness, and the most passionate effusions. 
" All these contradictions, these conflicting emo- 



GUIBERT'S TACTLESSNESS 343 

tions, are real, and are to be explained by these 
words : I love you." This chance expression of 
her pen exactly summarises this period of her 
life. 

Julie's temper was then uncertain, yet her 
complaints were not always unreasonable. Irre- 
sistible impulse had absolutely and irretrievably 
given her over to a man who, alike in his qualities 
and his defects, was an eminently unsuitable mate 
for one of her impressionable and exclusive nature. 
Guibert, not devoid of fine ambitions, was sin- 
cerely convinced that heaven had intended him 
to regenerate his country. Love, after the first 
moment of excitement, was therefore no more than 
a secondary preoccupation — a superior enjoyment, 
a delicate satisfaction, to which, in simple justice, 
he cannot and must not sacrifice the essential. 
His affection for Julie, and his admiration for this 
incomparable mistress, were no less real than was 
his pride in such a conquest, but he could never 
hold her entitled to a first claim upon his time. 
Thus he would often avoid her, evade a meeting, 
let several days pass without a visit, and neglect 
to write to her when absent, sometimes for a whole 
week, be frankly preoccupied in her presence, or 
follow the thread of his own thought without pay- 
ing any attention to her. Sometimes, too, he was 
inconceivably heedless, as when he omitted to seal 
his letters to her, or mislaid hers unread. That 
every such offence was noted needs no telling, nor 
yet that each left its scar ; yet they would readily 
have won pardon as licensed by a genius superior 



344 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

to the petty demands of the heart. " You know 
well," Julie once said to him with a sort of pride, 
" that sensibility is the portion of mediocrity, and 
your character commands you to be great. Your 
talents condemn you to celebrity, and the sweet and 
homely life of tenderness and feeling is not for you. 
Pleasure, but very little glory, is attached to the 
living for one end alone." One sin at all times, 
and this latterly more than ever before, exasperated 
Julie almost to madness — the thought of any faith- 
lessness, be it never so transient and platonic. 
Guibert, meanwhile, was notoriously susceptible to 
feminine society ; he hungered for the praise of 
women, and was a ready victim to their arts. 
Madame de Montsauge, also, he always held in 
affection, and at no time really broke off at least 
friendly relations with her. Such conduct was not 
easily excused in the eyes of a woman like Julie, 
and the clumsiness with which Guibert played his 
part was frequently incredible — endeavouring, as he 
does, now to conceal his visits to his old mistress, 
now frankly to discuss her with Julie in terms that 
could not fail to vex her. But his supreme feat 
in this direction was reserved to the day when he 
informed her that Madame de Montsauge had 
unexpectedly come to see him, and arrived as he 
was in act to seal an envelope addressed to her- 
self "Thereupon we talked together for a long 
time. She complained bitterly of my desertion of 
her, of my frivolity, and of the new connections that 
I continually form at her expense. She spoke of 
ours thus, for she has heard that I see you every 



GUIBERT'S TACTLESSNESS 345 

day, and that I pass all my evenings with you. She 
did not thus reproach me from love or jealousy, but 
she had counted upon my friendship ; her heart's 
peace was founded upon it ; in it she saw happiness 
for the rest of her life ; and she now feels that I am 
slipping away from her. . . . She was very tender, 
very affectionate, and very interesting, and neither 
on her part nor on mine was there the slightest 
allusion to our past relations. . . . She was full 
of sense, of philosophy, and of intelligence. I 
wish that you might have heard her ! " Guibert's 
finishing touch was this little picture of his re- 
lations with Julie : " My answers to her questions 
about you were such as you would have dictated 
yourself. I told her that I had the greatest pos- 
sible friendship for you, that no one could see 
you without the greatest interest, and that this 
interest was much augmented by the interesting 
conversation always heard at your house. In fact, 
my friend, you would have heard me with perfect 
satisfaction." 

These passages are in place, because they accen- 
tuate a trait very characteristic of Guibert — that self- 
confidence, and that species of frank conceit, which 
are an almost inevitable result of social success. He 
could scarcely have hurt Julie's pride, or wounded 
her more, had he laid himself out for the task ; and 
we need not be surprised that scenes and storms 
were the constant result of such crassness, any 
more than we should be astonished by the im- 
petuous reconciliations which almost invariably fol- 
lowed, but could not in the end spare her the most 



346 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

heart-rending anguish. In the middle of July, 
Guibert surreptitiously left Paris. Julie, much dis- 
turbed by this sudden departure, and the mystery 
surrounding it, at once accused him of desiring "to 
keep your journey a secret from me. If you went 
with an honest purpose, why should you fear to tell 
me of it? And if this journey is an offence against 
me, why do you take it ? You have never really 
confided in me. ... I do not know where you 
are ; I am ignorant of what you are doing." On 
this occasion, Guibert had, as it happens, good 
cause for silence, for we shall shortly find that his 
journey was concerned with a half-formed project 
of marriage. Embarrassed by the part that he 
was playing, and annoyed by Julie's reproaches, he 
replied only by a brief note, the ironical coldness 
of which Mademoiselle de Lespinasse construed 
as, if not a dismissal, at least a denial of his former 
vows. 

Guibert was evidently in the wrong on this 
occasion, yet posterity will probably incline to find 
excuses for an unkindness which moved Julie to 
this wonderfully eloquent letter, in which disap- 
pointed love, wounded pride, and indignant rage 
clothe themselves in language the fervour of which 
a hundred years have not availed to cool : " Never 
in my life, I believe, have I received a more pain- 
ful, a more blasting impression, than that which 
your letter has made upon me. Nevertheless, and 
to be equally truthful, I must needs allow that the 
kind of injury which you have done me here is 
worthy of no interest whatever, because it is my 



JULIE'S IRRITATION 347 

vanity which has suffered, and in a manner entirely- 
new to me. I have felt humiliated and crushed 
that I should have given to any one the appalling 
right to say such things to me ! . . . My heart, my 
vanity, everything which animates me, makes me 
feel, think, or breathe, — the whole of me, in a word, — 
is revolted, wounded, and for ever estranged. You 
have given me sufficient strength, not to bear my 
misery — that seems greater and more overwhelming 
than ever ! — but to ensure me from ever asfain beingf 
tormented or unhappy because of you. Judge, then, 
both of the excess of my crime and of the great- 
ness of my loss ! " At this point, and for the first 
time, Julie speaks of a possible final breach between 
them. "If your letter expresses what you really 
think and feel of me, believe, at least, that I shall 
not fall so low as to justify myself, or to ask for 
grace. . . . Here, therefore, we come to an end. 
Be henceforth with me as you can or as you will. 
For me in future, if future I have, I shall be with 
you as I should always have been ; and were it not 
for the remorse which you leave in my soul, I 
should hope to forget you. . . . Why, then, need I 
complain ? Does not the sick man who is doomed 
still look forward to the coming of the doctor ; still 
raise his eyes to his, if haply he may there find 
hope? The last impulse of pain is a groan; the 
last breath of the soul is a cry ! " 

Despite the suppressed emotion which escapes in 
these last lines. Mademoiselle de Lespinasse for a 
while maintained a firm stand against the repent- 
ance of the culprit. " Please to have decency 



348 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

enough to cease persecuting me," she writes, after 
his return. " I have but one wish, one need — never 
again to see you on any other than the common 
social basis. . . . Leave me ; count upon me no 
longer. If I can calm myself, I shall live ; but if 
you persist, you will soon have to reproach your- 
self with having given me the strength of despair. 
Spare me the pain and embarrassment of having 
to deny you my door during the hours when I am 
alone." After eight days of this stoical firmness 
Guibert forced her door, and she fell into his arms. 
" What a terrible project I had formed ! I was never 
to see you again — so possible an idea! You well 
know that the hours in which I hate you are those 
when my love for you has become a passion out- 
running all reason." 

Some weeks later, Guibert, alleging causes that 
jealousy itself must credit, announced that he was 
about to visit the family estates, and that father 
and mother of whom he was the pride and joy. 
Never yet had he been more attentive, more affec- 
tionate, and more tender than on the eve of this 
journey. " I am pursued by sad thoughts, and 
almost every one concerns you," he wrote to Julie. 
" You are not happy, and your health is failing ; you 
are attached to life only by a feeling to which you 
have never dared entirely to yield yourself, of which 
remorse stifles a part, and which absence will per- 
haps annihilate. I tremble to leave you in this 
condition, but my father awaits me, and I ought to 
have set out the week before last. . . . How neces- 
sary will your letters be to me ! Will mine be 



THREATENED RUPTURE 349 

equally so to you ? I shall make them as frequent 
as though they were, but how unsatisfactorily will 
this occupation bridge the horrible void of your 
lost society and conversation, and our daily meet- 
ings, of which the habit has grown so sweet to 
me. This interest, with my work, would suffice to 
fill my life, for near you ambition vanishes. . . . 
Never has my being been so strongly drawn to 
another. More violent and more tumultuous emo- 
tions I have known, never feelings so sweet as 
these, nor of a kind upon which I have so built my 
happiness." A like sentimental note pervades his 
first letters after leaving her. " The thought of 
you is constantly with me ; it will follow me to- 
morrow, to-morrow's morrow, and so through every 
day. Guess what has been my first reading ? Three 
or four of your letters, ensconced in my pocket-book, 
have escaped your barbarous mistrust ! I have 
kept them without scruple, for — 

' Whoso suspicion hath, treason invites.' 

Good-bye, my friend ; I shall write from Rocham- 
beau, from Chanteloup, from everywhere, for herein 
lie my consolation, my pleasure, and my need. Be 
you also punctual for like cause." 

Neither this letter nor those which followed it 
were answered, and Guibert's vexation at this was 
not abated when, ten days later, he found at Bor- 
deaux a **cold, dry note," in the tone one would 
use " to a man with whom it was desired to sever 
all connections." This note dwelt upon no specific 
grievance, but that it contained disquieting allusions 



350 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

and hard epithets, very disturbing to Guibert, clearly 
appears from his reply : "I am neither so false nor 
so dishonest as you are pleased to consider me. I 
have felt drawn to you, but at the same time I have 
never concealed from you the attachment which still 
existed between me and another. My struggles, 
my regret, and my anguish I never sought to veil 
from your eyes, and this unfortunate position has 
often driven me to reserves — lies, if you will so to 
call them, dictated entirely by delicacy. . . . But 
that which I have so often and so sadly foreseen 
has now arrived : you have come to hate me." 
Guibert's conscience palpably suspects the cause of 
this bitter language, and he was not long allowed 
to suppose that his fears were baseless. An hour 
after his departure, Julie learned, by means never 
disclosed, that while she sat alone in expectation 
of his farewell call, her lover was passing his 
evening with Madame de Montsauge. Having 
unmasked the lie with which he had been fain to 
cover such suspicious conduct, she resumes : " Thus 
I saw, and I believed, everything which is most 
painful to me, I had been deceived ; you were 
guilty ; at that very moment, you were abusing 
my affection ! . . . The thought revolted my soul. 
In the depths of my sorrow, I could no longer love 
you!" In her first indignation at this discovery, 
she had vowed to discontinue all intercourse with 
the traitor, even to leave his letters unopened ; and 
for ten days her resolve had held. Cost what it 
might, she could now remain silent no longer. She 
demanded definite explanations and a full confession. 



GUIBERT'S DEFENCE 351 

Guibert's reply to this ultimatum was as frank and 
sincere as it was injudicious and ill-adapted to soothe 
a wronged heart. " How may I express my pain 
at the manner in which I have wronged you, for 
wronged you I have, and I do not attempt to justify 
myself. I concealed from you the fact that Madame 
de Montsauge left Paris on Saturday evening for 
La Breteche, that I had seen her, and that I was 
with her until she set out at nine o'clock. Not 
wishing, as you divined, to come to you from her, I 
went home. We separated with much emotion on 
her part ; there were even a few tears in my eyes. 
She said that this was only friendships but that it 
was a warm and tender friendship which would 
suffer cruelly did I forget her. ... I spent a part 
of the night in examining myself, and in failing to 
understand myself : I was not cured of my love 
for her, but you were still very dear to me. . . . 
My heart is a perfect labyrinth, a maze!" His 
"lies," he confusedly protests, are "mere reserva- 
tions" — and reservations so painful that "my face 
and heart alike make reparation to truth in the very 
utterance of them." His conclusion, more truthful 
than full of tact, wounded Julie's sensitiveness to the 
quick. " But, good Heavens ! does not the similarity 
between your position and mine excite your indul- 
gence ? You love me, but your heart is full of 
Monsieur de Mora, and should I suggest that you 
surrender that memory of your dead, your heart 
were rent in twain. My friend, we be strange 
exemplars of the activity of human hearts ! " 

Guibert need scarcely have been surprised that 



352 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

such an exculpation was answered by a withering 
announcement of irremediable rupture : " How have 
I been deluded, and driven beyond the bounds 
of virtue, and even of personal interest ! . . . And 
who, good gods ! was the object of this sacrifice ? A 
man who has never belonged to me, and who is so 
cruel and dishonest as to tell me that he has made 
me his victim without loving me ! After having 
denied the truth, after having deceived me a thou- 
sand times, he takes his barbarous pleasure in pro- 
claiming a truth which debases me and drives me to 
despair. Is there no vengeance in heaven ? Must 
one only hate and die ? " Mademoiselle de Les- 
pinasse forsakes all restraints at last. Her letter 
passes from fiery invective to bitterest irony, and all 
in the same torrential strain : " You leave me the 
sole resource of despair, and for this kindness you tell 
me that I owe you indulgence, boast of the delicacy 
of the feeling in which you deceived me, and lied 
to me from morning to night. Truly this is a fair 
cruelty — to suffer a justification which is but the last 
insult ! This passion which you claim draws you so 
strongly towards one who reciprocates it so little 
— this great, this involuntary passion, nevertheless 
allowed you positively to assure another that you 
were no longer in love with this woman, and 
that your heart was so absolutely free that your 
one desire was marriage. These things agree 
together ! " There is no need to transcribe this 
raging philippic at length. It concludes with the 
announcement that there shall be no retreat : " Lose 
this letter according to your amiable habit, or — pray 



FINAL RUPTURE 353 

take your preference ! — keep it to read to this person 
who is so dear to you, and with whom you behave 
in so delicate a manner. In a word, do with it as 
you will. I no longer fear anything from a man who 
was dangerous to me only so long as I believed him 
virtuous and capable of feeling. Farewell! If one 
day I may cost you an hour of regret, or acquaint- 
ance with remorse — these shall avenge me." 

Still more than this stormy diatribe, later letters 
forebode that the final breach has come. Two 
weeks of silence and reflection restored her mental 
balance, and Julie was better capable of a cool and 
composed judgment. " Reflection has pulled me 
together. I have judged both of us, but I have con- 
demned myself alone." She has expected " the 
impossible " in claiming to hold a young and fasci- 
nating man ; and realising the mad arrogance and 
blindness of that hope, a final effort to free her heart 
from this insane love has, she believes, succeeded. 
" I do not mean that I shall ever cease to feel for 
you the greatest friendship, or to take the greatest 
interest in your welfare. But my feeling will be 
reasonable and moderate, and your reciprocating 
it, if you will, may still yield me some moments of 
happiness, yet never trouble or torment my soul." 
While Julie's hand halted on these lines, her will stood 
firm, and she fully meant each word ; and it were 
more than human not to feel the communication of 
her emotion in this touching and dignified farewell to 
her dream of happiness. " So I pardon each your 
offence, and abjure, with all the strength and reason 
still left in me, everything that I have written under 

Z 



354 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

stress of my despair. To-day, I lay in your hands 
my profession of faith : my promise to you, my 
pledge to myself, that never again will I exact or 
expect anything of you. Hold me yet in your friend- 
ship, if you may ; I will enjoy it peacefully and grate- 
fully. If you do not think me worthy of it, I shall 
sorrow, but I will not think you unjust. Farewell, 
my friend. I call you so in simple friendship, but the 
name is no whit less dear since it can now no longer 
trouble my heart which breathes it." 

These are brave words, but that Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse suffered acutely as she used them 
is clearly to be seen from her letters to Condorcet : 
" When hearts are weary to the point of crying 
What use f and have not so much as a wish to 
change this frame of mind ; when, without sufficient 
activity of despair to seek death, a woman realises 
each evening how fair would be the thought that 
to-night's sleep should be the end ; — then indeed 
she resigns the right to judge anything ; she but 
cumbers the earth, my friend." Sad unto death 
she was at this time, but her resolve held fast, 
despite frequent struggles with self and many an 
access of the deepest emotion. But a slight in- 
disposition that kept Guibert to his bed for a few 
days could still move her deeply. " You are ill 
and have fever. My friend, this awakes, not my 
interest, but my fear ! I seem to bring misfortune 
to all whom I love." When, also, he declined to 
accept his dismissal, or made use of expressions 
more than usually tender, she was thrown back into 
cruel perplexities : " Direct me ! be my guide ! I no 



RELAPSE 355 

longer dare say * I love you,' for I am utterly at 
sea. Judge for me, then — in this trouble of my 
soul, you know me better than I know myself." 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse was thus seemingly 
between two moods when the news of Guibert's 
imminent return reached her. " I dare not desire 
your return," she wrote, " but I count the days of 
your absence." Yet, unfeignedly glad of his return 
as she was, her joy on seeing him again did not 
weaken her determination. She received him no 
less often than before, and counted the hours to his 
visits with all the old fire, but their intercourse was 
that of mere friendship. Guibert, astonished and 
disappointed, endeavoured to obtain more of her, 
but in vain. "Is love, then, to be ever held a 
crime ? Can you never surrender wholly ? must 
you spend your life in self-torture ? . . . Do you 
not know that love is like the fire, which purifies 
everything, and dishonour has place there only 
where no love is." Vain rhetoric ; for Julie had 
never fallen to reason, nor ever could. Un- 
fortunately for her, this was but one, and that not 
the best, of his weapons. Her trial came when 
winning accents, an eloquence to charm as magic, 
and a personality almost magically attractive, were 
arrayed against her. In truth, however, the real 
struggle lay with herself — the consuming passion in 
her own veins, very poison to destroy the soul's 
peace. Thus one weak hour nullified the resistance 
of a month, and there was written, to come down to 
us, a cryptogram that was surely no stern test of the 
recipient's ingenuity. "Is....n..t...y..t... 



356 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

I l...y..., n.. t...y..i m. 

y w... a f t... I n.... 

h.... t. k... a.... T... m., t..., m. 

f , t . . . y . . 1. . . m .!" (I shall not tell 

you that I love you, nor that you intoxicated me 
yesterday with a feeling that I never hoped to 
know again. Tell me, then, my friend, that you 
love me !) 

From this day was dated a new phase. Hence- 
forward, crushed by the shame of relapse, and the 
consciousness of what she calls her " cowardice," 
Julie indulged herself with no more insulting words 
or cutting recriminations. Jealousy of Madame 
de Montsauge remained her perpetual torment, but 
where she reproached and quarrelled before, she 
now took refuse in a resignation sometimes ironical 
and always very sad. In such mood she communi- 
cated to her volatile friend her knowledge of his 
week's programme : "Give your mind to this, and 
listen : — Monday, dinner with Monsieur de Vaines 
and supper with Madame de Montsauge ; Tuesday, 
dinner at Board of Control and supper with 
Madame de Montsauge ; Wednesday, dinner with 
Madame Geoffrin and supper with Madame de M. ; 
Thursday, dinner with Count de Crillon and supper 
with Madame de M. ; Friday, dinner with Madame 
de Chatillon and supper with Madame de M. ; 
Saturday, dinner with Madame de M., to Versailles 
after dinner, and return on Sunday in time to 
spend the evening with me." At long intervals 
the constraint proved too much for her feelings, 
but no sooner had a word of revolt found utterance 



STORM AND CALM 357 

than it was immediately repressed : " You are 
busier than Providence, for you are responsible 
for the happiness of two people ; first, Madame de 
Montsauge must be satisfied, then I — but a long 
way behind, as is reasonable. Should not I say, 
then, with the Canaanitish woman — I will content 
me with the crumbs which fall from my master's 
table ! Good friend, this conduct, this tone of the 
Gospels, is of a humility to satisfy a Christian alone. 
But I am no aspirant to Heaven. I am not con- 
tent to be nourished, in this life, by crumbs from 
any table! Good-bye! If I see you, I shall be 
overjoyed ; if you do not come, I shall say. He 
fares better than with me. A thought so sweet 
will surely prove all balm ! " 

Such violent disputes and almost equally agitat- 
ing reconciliations as those here outlined were after 
all mere sad and too frequent episodes in the 
intercourse of this ill-assorted couple. Calm lies 
between two storms, and calmer moments saw this 
pair — intellectualists both, and equally admirers of 
the beautiful — turn readily to higher questions and 
nobler and more worthy occupations, in which 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, her soul no longer 
clouded by passion, proved again the wise and 
useful friend, the shrewd, keen counsellor whom 
all admired. In this part and in this case litera- 
ture was the claimant for her charming gifts of 
taste, tact, and good sense, and she would doubt- 
less have rendered him most precious service but 
for the pride, self-satisfaction, and love of flattery 
which too often annulled the efforts of her clear- 



358 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

sighted affection. Guibert, in justice, never took 
her frankness amiss, but asked for, and frequently 
insisted upon having, her advice : " I love to have 
you judge me," he says. "You can be critical and 
yet not wound ; your friendship always rubs the 
edge of the vase with honey." Yet ready as he 
was to hear advice, never once did he think of fol- 
lowing it — conduct that evokes our ready sympathy 
when Julie breaks out: " I do not know why I tell 
you all this, for surely I should be discouraged by a 
man who so listens to what he has not the remotest 
intention of putting into practice." Guibert's im- 
possible self-conceit must, none the less, be granted 
some indulgence, for few brains can resist such 
overwhelming praise as his contemporaries united 
to heap upon him. At this time he had temporarily 
exchanged his studies in the art of war for essays in 
the new field of literature. Periods of peace do not 
favour an embryo Turenne. Bethinking himself 
that he would therefore become a new Corneille, 
he was fully convinced of success when his reading 
of his first tragedy, "The Constable of Bourbon," 
in all the fashionable salons aroused transports of 
enthusiasm. Men were electrified, and applauded 
with all their strength ; women swooned ; Princes 
of the Blood Royal, the Due d'Orleans and Prince 
de Conde, solicited a private hearing ; the Queen 
herself commanded him to Versailles, and declared 
herself enraptured by the reading. The extra- 
ordinary art and music of his voice undoubtedly 
counted for something in this success, yet Vol- 
taire fell under its charm in far away Ferney, pro- 



GUIBERT AS AUTHOR 359 

nounced it equally a masterpiece, a piece "spark- 
ling with beautiful lines," and " full of genius." The 
*' sublime writer," not for a moment inclined to sleep 
upon his bed of laurels, immediately undertook 
another tragedy, of which he expected " marvels." 
" I am beginning the second act of ' The Gracchi,' 
and am perfectly satisfied with the first," he modestly 
announced to Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. " I am 
conscious of a stupendous wealth of ideas upon this 
subject ; many, indeed, will make your brain reel." 

In this concert of exaggerated praise Julie almost 
alone spoke her mind freely, and told him the truth. 
Her keen judgment went straight to the weak point 
in his work — the irremediable defect that mars the 
qualities of real eloquence and elevation undeniable 
in all Guibert's writings. Kindly but firmly she 
reproved his lack of correct form, his inaccuracy in 
expression, and the careless verse, which give his 
pompous tirades an off-hand, slovenly, and un- 
finished air. " Tell me," ran a letter, " whether you 
are accustoming yourself to making haste slowly, 
and have persuaded yourself to follow Racine, who 
fashioned verses with difficulty. My friend, you are 
to have the pleasure of reading — of re-reading every 
morning — a scene in this divine music ; you will then 
take a walk, and as you walk you will compose your 
verses. Your natural talent for deep thought and 
feeling will ensure that these verses are beautiful." 
These criticisms Guibert accepted with good grace, 
and every appearance of accepting their counsel. 
" You ought to be much pleased with me. I some- 
times compose no more than four verses a day, for I 



36o JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

am becoming very particular. All will be well ; 
this is a superb subject ! " Habit, however, soon 
resumed the upper hand, and Julie was again 
concerned to see his pen rushing along " post- 
haste." Satisfied of his own greatness, Guibert 
once indulged in " small and spiteful criticisms " of 
La Fontaine. " My friend," she returned sharply, 
" be severe with yourself and for yourself, and show 
some indulgence toward what is good. Above all, 
forgive me the truth in this remark ! " 

In the August of 1775, during the festivities 
attending Madame Clotilde's marriage, Marie 
Antoinette commanded a performance of The 
Constable at the Chateau de Versailles. Among 
the players were Lekain and Madame Vestris ; and 
the costumes and decorations cost three hundred 
thousand francs. But Julie flatly refused to attend 
this celebration, although all Paris was scrambling 
for a place : " No, I shall not see ' The Constable ' — 
I am unable either to judge or enjoy such scenes — 
but I shall take the keenest interest in your success, 
and shall glory in it." Fearing, not without reason, 
the searching test of the boards, she begged Guibert 
beforehand never again to take their risks. " I 
hope that you will return to me to-night," she wrote 
on the great day, " whether you are covered with 
glory or disheartened by a moderate success. Above 
all, whatever the issue to-night, swear that you will 
never again stage one of your pieces — this piece in 
especial, for it will be known and judged, and, if 
ever it come to Paris, lost." Thus, while the world 
predicted a triumph, she alone doubted. "If you 



JULIE'S SOUND ADVICE 361 

are on the highest summits of glory, tell me ; and if 
you are not satisfied, tell me that too. Never forget 
that all which is you is more / than myself." 

The event proved Julie right, and the news of 
Louis XVI 's ill-humour during the performance, 
of Lekain's poor playing, and of the glacial silence 
following the fall of the curtain, distressed her more 
than the author himself. Her sympathetic con- 
dolences were infinite, but she was only the more 
ardent to dissuade him from renewing this dangerous 
experiment by appealing from the verdict of the 
Court to that of the general public ; and when, 
emboldened by the encouragement of the Queen, 
he retouched his piece, changed the ending, and pre- 
pared for a new series of performances. Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse sought to turn him from 
this resolution by a letter which is an admirable 
example of logic, justice, and sound sense, and may 
well be partially quoted : " I disapprove of the 
changes in ' The Constable,' and for these reasons. 
Item — having thus changed about and altered this 
piece, you will be judged afresh, and with more 
severity than the first time. This is quite fair, for 
originally, yielding to the Queen's desire, you staged 
a play never written for the stage. That fact 
claimed indulgence for you, won you credit for the 
many beauties of your piece, and if any one criticised 
plot or diction he always added, ' This was not 
ivrilten to be acted.^ On the present occasion, how- 
ever, you set up as an author, and assume cor- 
responding obligations accordingly. You are known 
to have made changes with a view to the pre- 



362 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

sentation of the piece ; it will even be said that 
you have induced the Queen to demand the new 
representation. ... In any case," she resumes later 
in her letter, ** if you were to permit yourself any 
change, you should have given all your attention 
to the purity, elegance, and dignity of the style. 
Having again heard your piece, people would 
then have said : ' But I had not realised that it 
was so well written ; there is neither carelessness 
nor inaccuracy here.' . . . Instead of this, they 
will find a mass of loose ends, while such changes 
as you make will surely destroy its real original 
beauties. ... My friend, should you slay me, I 
would still maintain that I am right. But I have 
spoken. Do as you will ; I wash my hands of you ; 
but never think that I shall murmur, as do all these 
ladies who know how to praise but not how to feel : 
^ Ak ! How beautiful! How these changes improve 
it ! What a success it will have ! ' I shall repeat 
to you a hundred times : * No, it will not be a 
success, precisely because it has been changed.' " 

Never was prophecy more true. Played before 
a paying public, the piece fell perfectly flat and 
never rose again. Chastellux, asked for his opinion 
next day, found it "horribly changed, although, 
for the matter of that, even the first representation 
showed that it was menaced by a serious disease." 
The salons chimed in, and the same people who 
yesterday praised it to the clouds could not find 
quips sharp enough for the unfortunate tragedy. 
Julie hereupon reversed her part, and forthwith 
defended the piece against its detractors — frantically, 



GUIBERT'S PROJECTED MARRIAGE 363 

and to the point of risking quarrels with all her 
most intimate friends, "for," she ingenuously told 
him, " it seemed to me the height of injustice and 
insoknce that they should dare to judge you. I 
would have the exclusive right of thinking ill of 
you ! 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse certainly exhibited 
rare and beautiful fidelity in thus espousing Guibert's 
cause and taking his part against every one in his 
mishap, at the very moment when she was suffering 
the most cruel and humiliating experience possible 
to a woman in her position. His projected marriage 
did not, indeed, come to her as a revelation, for 
already a year before, in September 1774, the 
possibility had been forced upon her attention. 
During the early part of the sojourn which he was 
then making with his parents, Guibert suddenly 
interjected a sad picture of the condition of his 
family into a letter of the most tender protestations : 
" I am besieged by a thousand small anxieties that 
poison my pleasure in being at home." Thus 
prefaced, followed a long list of the cares which 
overwhelmed him — the edicts of Abbe Terray that 
threatened his father with ruin ; two marriageable 
sisters, with little or no portions ; a mother ill, and 
anxious about the future ; personal debts which 
" are insensibly increased by each day's life in 
Paris." This harrowing description concluded with 
the shaft, thrown out as though at random and by 
a careless hand : ** In my present perplexity, and 
with this prevision of what awaits me, I have per- 
haps but one means of escaping my debts, assisting 



364 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

my family, and placing myself in a position to help 
them. I must marry. My father has received 
several good propositions from among our neigh- 
bours, but I have refused them all. I would rather 
die than live in the country." Julie did not permit 
herself to respond to this lead, so Guibert returned 
to the subject a few weeks later, and now more 
definitely still : " My father will not come to Paris 
until January, as he is nursing a project of marriage 
which would establish me down there. I tell you 
this as I shall tell you everything, for you will 
advise and help me." And, as though he feared 
this were insufficient, he brusquely adds the sug- 
gestion that Julie should select for him this heiress 
who shall re-establish his fortunes. " If I am obliged 
to marry, I should like it to be with your help." 

If ever Julie de Lespinasse should have rebelled, 
this would seem to have been the occasion. But, 
in place of the more violent scene than any yet 
witnessed, we are to listen to these surprising 
words : " You will never guess what I am thinking 
about, and what I desire. I wish to marry a man 
•who is i7iy friend. I have a plan which I wish 
might be successful. . . . There is a young person 
sixteen years old who has a mother but no father. 
. . . Upon her marriage she will be given an in- 
come of thirteen thousand francs. She may live 
with her mother as long as she likes, as her brother 
is still a child. This girl's fortune cannot be less 
than six hundred thousand francs, and she may be 
much richer. Would that suit you, my friend } 
Speak, and we will bestir ourselves." If this affair 



JULIE'S ATTITUDE 365 

fall through, Julie knows of another family who 
would be " glad to have Guibert for a son-in-law." 
True, the girl is only eleven years old, "but she is 
an only child, and she will be very rich." The 
conclusion to all this is surely justified : " You will 
acknowledge that the Quietists, and our sensitive 
Fenelon, could not love God with more self-abne- 
gation ! " 

The key to this surprising complaisance may be 
found in the date of this correspondence, which 
occurred during the time when Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse believed herself betrayed, and deserted 
for Madame de Montsauge. Presumably, it then 
seemed preferable to yield her lover — if yielded he 
must be — to a legitimate wife rather than a mistress 
— an unknown person, rather than the old detested 
rival. The fears which gave it birth, however, no 
sooner yielded to a faint hope of reconquering the 
faithless one than her tone changed, and she used 
as much eloquence to dissuade him from this plan 
of matrimony as she had previously devoted to 
encouraging him. " My friend, I am surer than 
ever that a man of talent, genius, and ambition 
should not marry. Marriage is an extinguisher of 
everything great and brilliant. Men tender and 
honest enough to make good husbands can be 
nothing more. Such men are doubtless happy, 
but nature has destined others to be great and not 
to be happy. Diderot tells us that when nature 
makes a man of genius, she waves a torch above 
his head, saying : ' Be great and be unhappy.' 
That, I think, was what she said at your birth." 



366 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

This first alarm was succeeded by six months in 
which there was no more question of a marriage. 
JuHe, reassured, hoped that it was at an end, when, 
one evening in March, Guibert let fall a chance 
word which threw her into the most violent agita- 
tion. She controlled herself until he left, but next 
instant seized a pen and wrote all that which she 
did not dare to say : " Eleven o'clock in the evening, 
Tuesday. — Do you remember these words: ' It is 
not Madame de Montsauge whom you need fear, 
but . . .,' and the tone in which they were spoken ! 
And the silence which followed ! And the reticence 
and resistance ! Ah, does it need all this to bring 
sorrow and distress to my agitated soul ? Add to 
this your haste to be gone, and shall I wonder for 
whom you were in such a hurry ? Could I be 
calm ? I loved you, I suffered, and I accused 
myself." 

All next day Julie waited for a reply, but Guibert 
kept silence, neither explaining his ambiguous words 
nor paying attention to her agonised questions. 
Such conduct naturally kindled her worst suspicions : 
certain that some unknown misfortune was impend- 
ing, she implored the dreaded avowal with tears : 
" My friend, be honest, I conjure you. Tell me 
how woman may deserve the truth, and nothing 
shall be impossible ! Listen to the cry of your own 
soul ; you will cease to rend mine. . . . Esteem me 
enough not to deceive me. I swear by all most dear 
to me — by you — never to make you repent of con- 
fessing the truth. I shall love you for the pain and 
the shame that you will have spared me. . . . My 



GUIBERT'S CHOICE 367 

friend, think well upon it ; you would be very unwise 
and very dishonest should you let slip this chance 
of yielding to the desire, to the need of your soul. 
Believe that, from this moment, you may no longer 
leave me in ignorance. I have robbed you of every 
pretext for deceiving me ; if now you take advan- 
tage of me, you will be more than guilty ! " 

Pressed and commanded thus, Guibert at last 
yielded up the fatal secret which was to be her death- 
blow. His marriage was arranged, and the date 
almost fixed. Mademoiselle de Courcelles was a 
young girl of seventeen, pretty, intelligent, rich, 
and well-born. She was the great-grand-daughter 
of the celebrated dramatic author Dancourt, and, 
having literary tastes, professed a tremendous admi- 
ration for Count de Guibert. The marriage had, in 
fact, been planned almost a year earlier, and Gui- 
bert's mysterious absence had no other motive than 
a first meeting. Though the marriage could not 
take place immediately, it was definitely arranged, 
and Guibert had long been in constant communica- 
tion with the family of Courcelles. A note written 
by him to his future mother-in-law is witness of his 
intimacy in the house, and of his lover-like impa- 
tience : " I much regret that I am engaged. I am 
going with Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, Monsieur 
d'Alembert, and I don't know who else, to see 
Julien's pictures. I am at your service on Friday 
and Saturday. What a charming time I had with 
you last evening ! How happy I shall be when my 
life consists of such evenings ! " 

Julie was long ignorant of these details, for 



368 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Guibert represented to her that his marriage was a 
simple act of reason and convenience, almost forced 
upon him by his family, and but recently arranged. 
The blow was none the less terrible, and seemed at 
first utterly to crush her. " We can no longer love 
each other," was her first word ; the next, " I cannot 
live." Next day she wrote : " I cannot express all 
that I suffer, all that I feel ; it seems impossible to 
bear up under it. I feel that my whole being is 
giving way, and I feel that I need only surrender 
myself, to die. A long and painful struggle suc- 
ceeded between her wounded pride which com- 
manded a rupture with Guibert, and her passion 
which forbade it ; by Guibert's entreaties that he 
may still remain her friend, and her conscientious 
scruples lest inclination prove too strong for such 
a new part. " How do you expect me to say whether 
I shall love you in three months' time ? While I am 
seeing you, while your presence charms my senses 
and my soul, how should I be able to foretell my feel- 
ings about your marriage.'* My friend, I have no ideas, 
none at all. . . . My habit of life and of character, 
my way of being and feeling, my whole existence in 
a word, make pretence and constraint impossible. 
. . . I can understand," she continues, '*that were 
you set to create a disposition for me, you would 
give me a character more suitable to your require- 
ments. One does not ask for hardness and strength 
in one's victims, but feebleness and submissiveness. 
Friend, I am capable of all things, except this — to 
bend. I could suffer martyrdom ; I should have 
Strength, I will say it, /<? commit crime, to satisfy my 



JULIE'S CONDUCT 369 

passion ; but I find nothing in me which promises 
that I shall ever be willing to sacrifice my passion." 
Such was her distress and her suffering, that 
Julie almost wished to hasten the fatal day, if so 
be the unalterable fact may bring a little calm and 
repose : ** I am waiting for, — I desire your marriage. 
I am like the sick man who is to be operated upon : 
he sees his cure in prospect, and forgets the violent 
means by which he is to gain it. My friend, deliver 
me from the misfortune of loving you." Signature 
of the contract on the first of May none the less 
gave the signal for another crisis of despair : " The 
sentence is signed, then ! God grant that it is 
pronounced for your happiness, as surely as it is 
pronounced upon my life ! You overwhelm me ; I 
must escape from you if I would recover the strength 
that you have taken from me. . . . Do nothing more 
for me. Your goodness and your kindness can only 
increase my pains." A thousand conflicting feelings 
and desires tore her soul, until existence was one 
awful contradiction. One day in May, wild desire 
seized her to know and see this girl who was so 
surely both the occasion and the instrument of her 
torture. Guibert, she knew, expected Madame de 
Courcelles and her daughter at seven o'clock that 
evening. She reached the house a few moments 
before that hour, and installing herself there to 
await them, terrified the master of the house : 
"You come to torture me," was upon the point of 
his tongue ; " to spy upon my actions, so as to be 
able later to steep yourself in gall, and overwhelm 
me with reproaches." Yet the double visit passed 

2 A 



370 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

off delightfully. Julie was affable, gracious, even 
"caressing" with the young girl : " Heaven's own 
language is upon her lips ! " Mademoiselle de 
Courcelles was "enchanted" with this reception, 
and Guibert, astonished, touched, and grateful, 
was tempted to " fall at her feet," and apologise 
for his recent temper. His surprise and joy were 
redoubled by the note which reached him a few 
moments later: "I find the young person very 
charming, and worthy of your interest in her ; her 
mother's face, manners, and appearance are equally 
pleasant and interesting. Yes, you will be happy." 
But morning brought a complete change. The 
grace and beauty of Guibert's chosen bride now 
exasperated the embittered heart of the deserted 
woman, who, agonised to the point of injustice, 
overwhelmed her inconstant friend with an ava- 
lanche of reproaches, against which he struggled 
with justifiable indignation : " Your picture of me 
and of my conduct is horrible ! You rank me with 
Lovelace, and all the greatest scoundrels ! You 
gratuitously credit me with the intention of tor- 
menting you, of consigning your days to unhap- 
piness, of desiring you to live upon a passion which 
caters to my vanity. You say that I turn, and 
re-turn, the dagger in your wound. . . . Thus I 
revel in your tears, in your convulsions, your desire 
to die, and in this unfortunate feeling which still 
binds you to life ! . . . I feed upon it ; I have the 
soul of an executioner ! " Yet he defended himself 
with gentleness against these outrageous charges : 
** I examine myself, I search my heart, and my 



HER MOODS 371 

heart reassures me. I am not so culpable towards 
you as you imagine. ... I love you now, I have 
loved you, I was carried away by you. I tried to 
console you. That I would have given, and would 
still give, my life for you, are my crimes. Read my 
letters over, judge me, consider all the circum- 
stances, and see whether I am wicked, as you say." 

Guibert was sincere enough. He never really 
understood, and never could understand, the con- 
trasts, the upheavals, and the conflicting emotions 
of Julie's impetuous heart, for he had no personal 
contact with so nervous and highly-strung a nature, 
exalted to the point of folly, sensitive to the point 
of torture, and utterly different to all others that 
ever he knew. The coldness, egoism, and " bar- 
barity," of which Julie was accusing him on the very 
threshold of the tomb, were the natural consequence 
and effect of perpetual misapprehension. Guibert 
was absolutely sincere when, some months later, he 
confessed to Julie the confusion into which she 
plunged his mind : " Your soul is sometimes so 
quick and fiery, sometimes so cold and withering, 
always so sad and so difficult to lead, that one hardly 
knows how to meet it." 

As the weeks passed, and the date set for the 
wedding approached, Julie's temper became in- 
creasingly exalted, more and more devoured by 
fever. She constantly summoned Guibert to her, 
yet was as often unable to endure his presence. 
Each word of affection was then received as an 
insult: "I want you to know that I am unable 
to bear protection and compassion ; my soul was 



372 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

not fashioned in such base mould. Your pity gives 
the finishing touch to my misery ; spare me the 
expression of it. Persuade yourself that you owe 
me nothing, and that I no longer exist for you." 

The wedding-day was fixed for the first of June, 
at the Chateau de Courcelles, not far from Gien, 
on the border of Berri, Here Guibert was to join 
his affianced bride, ten days before the date of the 
ceremony. On the eve of his departure, he received 
a last disconnected and almost incoherent note, in 
which almost every word amounted to a cry of 
anguish: "Good-bye; do not come to see me! 
My soul is panic-stricken, and you can never calm 
it. You have neither the tender interest which 
consoles and sustains, nor the goodness and truth 
which give confidence and repose to a wounded 
and deeply afflicted soul. Ah ! how you hurt me ! 
I ought never to see you again ! If you are honest, 
leave to-morrow after dinner. I shall see you in 
the morning — more than enough ! " 

Guibert presented Julie with a parting gift in the 
guise of a small ring, made for her from a circlet 
of hair held together by a few threads of gold, — 
an emblem of his attachment. This simple orna- 
ment seemed to her more beautiful and precious 
than all the diamonds of the king, and the thought 
of it touched her deeply. As soon as Guibert left 
her, she put the ring on her finger. " Two hours 
later, it was broken," she writes. The trifling in- 
cident froze her with superstitious horror ; she 
saw in it a mysterious sign, the symbol of her 
destiny. 



CHAPTER XIV 

Complicated feelings of Guibert on his marriage — Charming qualities of his 
wife — Promise of a married idyll — Despair and indignation of Made- 
moiselle de Lespinasse — Vain attempts to divert her mind — Bitter 
reproaches to the traitor — Agonised crisis and reaction towards a more 
quiet mind — She swears their connection shall now be platonic — Heroic 
resistance to Guibert's pleas — Death now her one desire — Her strength 
fails, and she neglects herself — Her friends completely ignorant of the 
cause of trouble — Incredible blindness of d'Alembert — His vexation at 
her refusal of his efforts — Her sweetness and his devotion — ^Julie's health 
fails further, but her passion is undiminished — Sincere grief and tender 
protestations of Guibert — Sad letters of the lovers — Abel de Vichy 
arrives — Agony of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse — Her last letter to 

Guibert — Her death — d'Alembert discovers Julie's passion for Mora 

His indignation and despair — He confides in Guibert — Melancholy 
resignation of his last years. 

" My marriage-day— beginning of a new life. In- 
voluntary shudder during the ceremony. I was 
pledging my liberty and my whole life. My soul 
has never been distracted by so many thoughts 
and feelings. What a labyrinth, what an abyss is 
man's heart ! I am lost in the myriad windings of 
mine. Yet, everything promises happiness. I am 
marrying a young, pretty, sweet, and sensible 
woman who loves me, who is made to be loved, 
and whom I already love." In this hectic strain 
did Guibert, on the very evening of his marriage- 
day, confide to his private diary his mixed feelings 
of anxiety and hope. A week later, the tone was 
already more joyous : " Days passed like a dream ! 
This new position is, in fact, a dream to me. 
Loved, friendliest, most candid, and adorable wife! 



374 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Her soul unfolds from day to day ; I love her, I 
shall love her, and I feel convinced that I shall be 
happy." Thenceforward, his conjugal tenderness 
increased hourly ; and when his military duties 
compelled the first separation from his wife, Gui- 
bert's letters to her were rather those of a lover 
than of a husband. " Nine days without news of you 
make me feel as if I were a hundred miles away. 
Silence separates more than distance. . . . Ah ! tell 
me constantly that you love me ! I cherish these 
repetitions — this craving speaks eloquently from my 
heart. . . . That wretch Lepine has not sent me 
my watch, but I have your picture. I may say with 
the Duchesse de Maine : ' The one numbers the 
hours, the other sweeps them into oblivion.' " 

Countess de Guibert, to whose delicate beauty 
Greuze has given eternal life, was altogether worthy 
of this passionate affection. Her youth, sweetness, 
patience, and remarkable intelligence soon enabled 
her to exercise upon her impetuous husband an 
influence almost imperceptible at first, but one 
which grew and endured. She never annoyed him 
by unwise jealousies, nor, whether in her letters to 
her mother or to her husband, did she ever mention 
the name of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, except on 
the one occasion when she sent her a letter with the 
offer of a box at the theatre on her husband's behalf. 
Although she well knew how that lady disliked her- 
self, to Madame de Montsauge she was always most 
polite, since Guibert was anxious that they should 
be friends. " I would like my friends to be yours," 
he writes to Madame de Guibert ; *' I would be the 



MADAME GUIBERT 375 

connecting link in this chain." " I would forgive 
her for hating me, if you loved her less," she 
answered sweetly ; and, without further resistance, 
she called upon Madame de Montsauge, invited her 
frequently to supper, and even consented to stay 
with her in her Chateau at La Breteche. 

Countess de Guibert possessed yet another 
and greater virtue in her unmixed, sincere, and 
undying admiration for her husband. Guibert, to 
whom praise was a necessity, almost a physical 
need, could not possibly resist the atmosphere of 
incense which he constantly breathed at his own 
hearth. The jealous observation of Mademoiselle 
de Lespinasse was quick to seize on this, and she 
wrote with bitter irony of " this family always at 
his feet, the flattery which, morning and evening, 
caresses his vanity." "It was by this that she 
attracted you," she cried ; " for this you have sub- 
mitted to her, and how you will be subjugated for 
the rest of your life ! " Julie's discrimination did 
not here go astray. As much by her absolute faith 
in her husband's genius as by her own exquisite 
qualities, the young wife gradually won and held 
Guibert's fickle and volatile heart, and when he 
presently proclaimed his complete submission to 
this light and pleasant yoke, he confessed what 
he knew to be the simple truth : " Charming and 
sweet creature, Heaven has formed you after my 
heart's wish. To you were given goodness, grace 
which is more beautiful than beauty, modesty, 
simplicity, and sense. All these adorn your life. 
. . . Yes, in a few years you will be a woman 



376 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

among women — the exclusive object of my worship, 
and the centre of all my interests. My enemies shall 
turn pale with envy ; seeing my happiness, they shall 
know that they cannot take it from me ! " 

While this edifying idyll was in progress, Julie de 
Lespinasse, alone in her poor Paris lodging, pictured 
in spirit these scenes so heartrending for her, and 
almost died for the shame, despair, and remorse. 
Through eight whole days she mused, as she her- 
self says, " without words or tears," in an appalling 
silence, interrupted only by convulsive attacks. 
More than ever did this distress turn her thoughts 
to Mora. She wrote to him almost every day — to 
tell him of her misery, to implore his pardon, and 
to conjure him to cease his vengeance — and these 
letters to the dead were, for the time, her only 
correspondence. Ten days after Guibert's depar- 
ture she received from him a short, cold, and em- 
barrassed note, in which he excused his neglect, and 
advised her to forget him. The perusal of this 
missive, acting upon her overwrought nerves, almost 
crazed her, every word becoming, as she owns, 
"gall and poison," The inoffensive phrase, "Live, 
for I am not worth the pain I cause you," enraged 
her to the point of " suffocation." Reading into it 
no one knows what hidden insult, if for a moment 
during her long nights of sleeplessness she fell into 
a doze, she "awoke with a start of horror at the 
sound of these terrible words." Refusing to answer 
this note, for six weeks she did not even open his 
letters. One thought ceaselessly tormented her 
fevered brain, and lashed her anger to fury — 



JULIE'S BITTERNESS 377 

Guibert had never loved her ; she had been but 
his plaything and his dupe. The thought took 
form in these cutting terms : " To-day I see you 
as you are, for I see that you have done a vile 
thing. You have dared to reduce me to despair by 
using me for your pastime — as a means to sever 
the connection which could not continue after your 
marriage. To give some appearance of honesty 
to your dealings with Madame de Montsauge, you 
have thought it necessary to abase me, and to take 
from me the only thing still remaining to me, my 
self-esteem." 

That Julie's frail body, already so terribly 
weakened, was able to bear all this self-torment, 
and her absolute neglect of her health, seems almost 
miraculous. She ate almost nothing, spent hours 
daily in the bath in order to keep down her fever, 
and drugged her distracted nerves with enormous 
doses of opium. Hoping to divert her mind, she 
turned headlong back to her old worldly life, re- 
opened her salon, dined in town, and rushed wildly 
from one entertainment to another. And when all 
these methods failed to stay the imperative need of 
relieving her mind, she seized her pen and upbraided 
Guibert. She at last decided to reopen her cor- 
respondence with him, because one day — mechanic- 
ally, she averred — having opened a package in the 
post, she found in it his pamphlet V Eloge de Catinat 
and a letter from the author. Reading it, she de- 
termined to reply, but in what a manner and in 
what a tone ! The words " hate " and '* vengeance " 
recur on almost every page, interspersed with cruel 



378 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

invective. On one page she affects coldness and 
proud indifference. " Allow me the pride and ven- 
geance which make it a pleasure to tell you that I 
forgive you, and that it is no longer in your power 
to teach me fear." Another displays the most 
crushing disdain: "Your marriage taught me to 
know your whole soul, and thus alienated and closed 
mine to you forever. There was a time when I 
would rather have known you unhappy than despic- 
able. It has passed." 

These virulent and excessive insults invite our 
sympathy rather than blame, so evidently are they 
the fruit of real suffering, and so horribly reminis- 
cent are they of a death-agony. On the fifteenth 
of July, Mademoiselle de Lespinasse was overcome 
by an attack so terrible, by such frightful spasms 
and terrifying convulsions, that her last hour really 
seemed at hand. Her hands and arms were " twisted 
and drawn-up," and her broken words seemed to 
escape from between her lips : " I shall die ... go 
away ! " D'Alembert, standing horror-struck at the 
foot of her bed, cried as if his heart would break, 
and continually bewailed the absence of Monsieur 
de Guibert — " the only being who could help you ! " 
These words, she says, recalled her to her senses : 
" I felt that I must calm myself for the sake of this 
good man. With a great effort, I told him that a 
nervous attack had overcome me when already 
broken by my usual ills." A paroxysm of tears 
presently calmed her, and the happy chance of the 
arrival of a post, bringing two letters from Guibert, 
completed her recovery : " My hands trembled so 



CALMER REACTION 379 

that I could hardly hold or open them. But imagine 
the happiness when the first word that I read was 
My friend. My soul, my lips, my life fastened them- 
selves to the paper. I could not read it, I could 
only distinguish detached words : * You give me 
back my life, I breathe again.' My friend, it was 
you who gave it to me. Never, no, never, have I 
felt such tenderness and love." 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse grew much calmer 
after this crisis. She "will no longer," she "can 
no longer hate." Little by little she resigned 
herself to the long-rejected idea that it is possible 
to own a place in a heart although it is not wholly 
possessed. The idea of sharing with any one is 
very distasteful to her, but, in default of perfect 
love, she henceforward vaguely conceived the possi- 
bility of a chaste and innocent affection, and for 
a time this hope bound her to life : " Yes, we will 
be virtuous," she cried bravely ; " I swear and 
promise it. Your happiness and your duty shall be 
sacred to me ; I should be horrified should I find 
in myself any feeling that might trouble them. 
Good heavens ! if one unvirtuous thought were left 
in me, I should shudder at myself! . . . No, my 
friend, you will have nothing with which to re- 
proach yourself . . . You know the strength that 
passion can give to the soul it rules ? To this I 
promise that I will add the strength given by the 
love of virtue and by indifference to death, that so 
I may never interfere with your happiness or your 
duty. I have thoroughly considered. Love me, 
and I will have strength to suffer a martyrdom." 



38o JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

Being newly agreed on this basis, Guibert, his 
conscience at rest, certainly betrayed more tender- 
ness and appeared more attentive than ever. Their 
parts were reversed ; he now appealed to the past 
and begged for frequent letters, or with unwonted 
humility craved Julie's indulgence : " I am filled with 
sorrow and remorse. I feel that all those whom I 
have loved or do love, and who love me, are un- 
happy. It seems my destiny to bring misfortune 
wherever I go. . . . Write me one word, and let that 
be My friendy Julie did not immediately reply, 
and he wrote again : " I write to you without the 
hope of a reply, but I shall persist, I shall pursue 
you with my affection, even should you assure me 
that it is distasteful to you." Coming to a phrase 
in which he found the traces of bitterness, his dis- 
cretion fell yet more away : " The words, / do not 
love you, wherever you are, frighten me. Ah, my 
friend, I love you wherever I am, and I shall never 
change." Julie's reception of these protestations 
frequently suggests her smile of doubt and incredu- 
lity : " Is it really true ? Do you really need to be 
loved by me ? That does not prove you a man 
of feeling, but that you are insatiable." Guibert's 
words, however, were certainly balm to her sick 
heart, and her pen would wander back to the tender 
expressions of earlier days: "This simple truth 
remains — I love you as warmly as if it were your 
happiness that was sacrificed to my pleasure and 
peace of mind." 

At about this time. Mademoiselle de Lespinasse 
chanced to meet Madame de Guibert and her mother 



SHE DEFIES GUIBERT'S PLEAS 381 

in Paris. " I advanced to meet them," she said 
proudly, " and talked to them of their health and of 
their talents ; in fact, I dare promise that you will 
hear them call me ' very amiable.' You will not 
believe a word of it. ... I became so perfect as to 
frighten myself. I must be like the swan whose 
death-song is her best — which is something, after all ! 
You will say, * Her death is untimely, it is a pity ! ' " 
Autumn brought Guibert definitely back to Paris, 
and Julie received him upon exactly the footing of 
three years before, at the outset of their acquaint- 
ance — frequently, publicly, in an honest intimacy 
which carried no remorse in its train. 

Guibert himself confesses that this new and 
delicate situation remained untroubled to the end 
was due to Julie alone. Sitting with her on a 
November evening when he had brought, at her 
own request, a package of her old tempestuous 
letters, he begged the favour of reading them with 
her. '* Never," he afterwards wrote, " did love in- 
toxicate me to such a point ! Your letters, those 
same letters which should have chilled me, my 
sudden recollection of the past, my hand which 
sought yours, — after all, what can I say to you ? . . . 
All the fire, all the excitement of passion was in my 
heart, and you repulsed me with every evidence of 
hatred and contempt! ..." Neither violence nor 
pleas moved Julie, and Guibert fled home, confused, 
humiliated, and vanquished, thence to write, that 
same night, repentantly imploring pardon for an 
hour of madness : " My friend, by what words and 
by what behaviour can I secure your pardon for the 



382 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

feelings which carried me away ? You accuse me, 
you condemn me, you hate me, you think me with- 
out principles or virtue ! . . . I am dying of repent- 
ance and regret ; I cannot sleep, I am in despair at 
having displeased you — I cannot say offended you, 
for to offend is to act with intent, and I was so far 
from that ! . . . I shall postpone my journey ; I 
shall throw myself at your feet to-morrow, and ask 
your forgiveness. I have never deserved it more, 
and never have you been dearer to me." 

They who would look to find Julie's indignation 
implacable, know little of a woman's heart. She 
never for a moment weakened in will, or lapsed 
from her irrevocable decision, but her anger could 
no sooner cool than she must see in this distracting 
scene nothing but that Guibert still loved her. Her 
reply to his letter was therefore as tender as it 
was troubled : " I do not know in what manner to 
address you, for I fear even to speak with you. 
My soul is racked, and I see things as one con- 
fused. I no longer know whether crime or virtue 
works for happiness, nor which is the more painful 
— remorse or regret. ... I live, and the reason is 
as I told you last night — the knowledge of your love 
for me. Your spirit knows how its power is to 
sever me from all else in this world. A quarter of 
an hour, and we two stand alone in life ; there is 
neither past nor present ; you are no longer guilty, 
and I am no longer unhappy." 

A less passionate spirit might doubtless have 
come to content itself with this half-happiness, 
building upon love's ruins the sweet and enduring 



o 



HER FAILING STRENCxTH 38 

friendship so impossible to this ardent and imperious 
soul, who herself confessed to knowledge " neither 
of moderation nor of measure." But when Julie 
had perceived her duty, she could only sacrifice her 
happiness to it. The sundered knot could never be 
retied ; the pain of it could kill. Thus the autumn 
and winter following Guibert's marriage were but one 
long appeal to the death of which she spoke as of a 
friend. " Let him but come, and I promise — not to 
receive him with shrinking, but as my welcome 
deliverer ! . . . I ask myself what I need, what 
there is for me in the world ? I find no answer, 
unless in that desire of the tired traveller — a place 
to rest my head — Saint Sulpice for me ! " As her 
strength waned, this cry grew in power : " Let me 
stay and rest my mind in this much-desired and 
long-awaited moment of which I feel the approach 
as it were with rapture." 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse did not speak idly 
in this. She knew that the spring of her life ran 
dry, and that the incurable malady which night 
and day sapped her being had passed " from her 
soul to her body." The doctor was no less aware 
of the cause of her terrible wasting. "He repeats 
that I am devoured by sorrow, that my pulse and 
my respiration bear witness to active suffering, and 
he always takes his leave with the saying, ' We 
have no drugs to cure the soul ! ' " At this time, 
however, the doctor had little opportunity even 
to confess his impotence to cure. Julie preferred 
to be her own physician, and her one care was 
to spare herself physical suff"ering. " Sedatives," 



384 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

that is to say soporifics, were her specific, and 
she used them immoderately, as she pleased, de- 
spite the remonstrance of her friends. Countess 
de Boufflers vigorously attacked her on this score, 
but without success: "It is a strange thing to 
find an intelligent person who dreads doctors and 
not drugs. Do you, then, imagine that they kill 
with knives? Believe me, their pills are more 
unpleasant than their presence ; and when one 
takes to physic, it is safer to consult them, for 
ignorant they may be, yet still know more than 
we do." No reasoning, however, could influence 
her, for this conduct was part of the preconceived 
plan which makes this last phase of her life nothing 
less than a long-drawn suicide, coldly premeditated 
and relentlessly accomplished, during which she 
made all her last arrangements — planning out the 
details of her burial, carefully indicating what shall 
be done when she is gone — as "to have her head 
opened by a charity surgeon." She confided all 
these dismal wishes to Guibert, who was "frozen 
with horror." "You must, then, have no feeling 
for me of any sort," he cried, " thus to bring despair 
to my soul ! You say that you do not do so ; 
that all my sorrows are transient, that my tears 
even prove nothing — I have shed them so often ! 
Will you not say that they are feigned?" 

This idea, indeed, which continually pursued 
her, was the only fear that clung about the threshold 
of the tomb. Guibert would soon forget her, 
and would not mourn her long : " Friend, there 
is in you nothing either deep or constant. There 



BLINDNESS OF HER FRIENDS 385 

are days when the news of my death would hardly 
produce any impression upon you, and — you see 
how well I know you — there might be a moment 
when you would be crushed by it." In spite of 
physical weakness, her love still filled her heart, 
strong", indestructible, and triumphant over any 
suffering. " I am myself only when I see you. 
Your presence charms away all my ills ; you alter- 
nately give me fever and cure me of it, so that I 
hardly know whether I have suffered. When I 
see you, I need only your love ; Heaven is in my 
soul ; I no longer judge you, I forget that you are 
faulty, I love you ! " 

It is an astonishing fact that among her in- 
numerable friends not even the most intimate ever 
suspected the true cause of that wasting which 
so afflicted their hearts. Attributing her languor, 
her feebleness, and her pitiable emaciation to her 
sorrow for Mora's loss, they vied with each other 
in lecturing her, with affectionate logic, upon the 
uselessness of these eternal regrets. " You have 
exaggerated ideas of love," Suard wrote, " which 
revive feelings that would otherwise fade, and 
recall to your imagination everything that makes 
them more bitter and more lasting. Ah, Made- 
moiselle, I have but one prayer : do not be 
greater than nature ! Allow yourself to re- 
spond to what attracts you ; do not call to mind 
your gloomy memories, but console yourself for 
not being inconsolable." Condorcet, Madame de 
Boufflers, and her other friends all used like 
arguments, and filled her with painful humiliation. 

2 B 



386 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

** They all believe that Monsieur de Mora's death 
is killing me. My friend, if they knew that it 
is you — your marriage that was my death-blow — 
what horror they would feel for me ! how con- 
temptible I should seem to them ! Ah, they could 
not accuse me more loudly than does my own 
heart." Her self-hatred at this deception kept her 
continually at the point of revealing her secret. 
" I do not know how it happens that I have not 
already twenty times uttered the words which 
would disclose the secret of my life and of my 
heart." Yet silent she remained, and her lacerated 
heart kept its own counsel so well that when, 
thirty years later, Guibert's widow printed Julie's 
first letters, Madame Suard had scarcely read ten 
pages of the book before it had fallen from her 
hand, and she rushed to her husband, crying : 
"My friend, she loved Monsieur de Guibert ! " 
Suard, too, could find no words but " I have just 
discovered it," and the pair were alike overwhelmed 
with astonishment. 

The blindness of d'Alembert is even more in- 
comprehensible, for he lived under the same roof, 
and followed, almost hour by hour, every phase 
of her existence. In his passionate tenderness for 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, and with his perfect 
knowledge of her nature, he could never attribute 
her suffering to other than purely mental causes ; 
but as he had never believed her feeling for 
Mora to be more than friendship, he could not, 
like the others, explain her decline by grief for 
him. And, also, he had to remark, with bitter 



D'ALEMBERT 387 

despair, her sudden and complete change of 
attitude towards him. He was no longer greeted, 
as during her anxiety for Mora, by coldness and 
the vacant silence of a person absorbed in sad 
thoughts, but with a dry bitterness, or — would he 
approach her — with a drawing back which seemed 
actual repulsion, Julie accuses herself for this 
conduct in one of her letters to Guibert. " Did 
it not seem too ungrateful, I would say that Mon- 
sieur d'Alembert's departure would give me a sort 
of pleasure. His presence weighs upon my soul. 
He makes me ill at ease with myself; I feel too 
unworthy of his friendship and his goodness." 

D'Alembert's pain at this change in her need 
not be described. He never complained, but if 
redoubled care, constant consideration, and inde- 
fatigable devotion may win back the heart that slips 
away, he would have kept this one. The portrait 
of himself that he presented to Julie at about this 
time has under it these melancholy lines : — 

" Take thou, in tenderest friendship, this, his face. 
Thy strong stay in all ills who fain would be ; 
And whisper, if sometimes thy glance may grace 
Its features : ' Of all those I loved, who so loved 
me as he?' " 

Vainly, however, did he rack his brain ; for never 
in the long sleepless nights could he divine the 
sad truth — not even on the day after Julie's death, 
when his spirit groaned: "For what reason that 
I can neither comprehend or suspect did your 
tender feeling for me change to estrangement and 
aversion ? What was my crime to displease you ? 



388 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

. . . Had you done me some wrong of which I 
was ignorant, and which it would have been my 
joy to pardon did I know of it ? You told one 
of my friends, who reproached you for your treat- 
ment of me, that the reason of your coldness was 
that you could not open your heart to me, and 
let me see the wounds which sapped your life. 
Twenty times I have been on the point of throwing 
myself into your arms, and of demanding to know 
my crime, but I feared lest your arms should 
spurn mine — outstretched to you. Your look, your 
speech, even your silence seemed to forbid my 
approach." 

D'Alembert, so far from crediting his friend 
with an unhappy love, naturally had not the least 
suspicion of Guibert, whose absence we have 
already heard him deplore when Julie lay so near 
to death, and towards whom he always showed 
especial confidence and sympathy. " Monsieur 
d'Alembert loves you as though I influenced him," 
Julie once told her lover with a half-smile, and that 
lover never left Paris without constantly receiving 
letters from the philosopher. Is he ill himself, 
d'Alembert writes anxious inquiries ; weakness 
confines Julie to her room, he keeps Guibert 
informed as to her condition, himself sometimes 
carries him letters from the invalid, addressed in 
his own hand. Such surprising simplicity would 
seem ridiculous but for the pathos of its absolute 
faith, self-abnegation, and generous devotion. And 
this wonderful fidelity endured to the end of his 
life, for when Marmontel would once have dis- 



HER LAST DAYS 389 

tracted him from his grief, by a reminder of his 
friend's ingratitude, there were tears in the voice 
which replied : *' She was altered, but I never." 

The already terribly precarious condition of 
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse did not fail to grow 
worse with winter. " I am cold, so cold," she 
says, " that my thermometer is twenty degrees 
below Reaumur.^ This supreme cold, and state of 
perpetual torture, discourage me so absolutely that 
I have no longer the strength to wish for anything 
better. ... I freeze, I tremble, I am dying of 
cold," she says later ; " my heart is so cold, so 
heavy and painful, that I could say like the mad- 
woman of Bedlam, ' it suffers as if it would burst.' " 
The chills which froze the blood in her veins in 
the evening, were succeeded by a high fever which 
kept her nightly awake until dawn. Paroxysms 
of coughing and suffocation, and headaches which 
make her "half crazy," led to yet more frequent 
recourse to the dangerous aid of opium, of which 
she would sometimes take four grains at a time. 
" Such doses," she says, " calm me as Medusa's 
head once calmed, I am petrified, incapable of 
motion, and lost to the use of all my faculties ; 
things pass before me as on the sheet before a 
magic-lantern — so much so that for two whole 
hours this afternoon it would have been impossible 
for me to put names to the faces that I saw. Oh, 
but it is a strange thing — thus to be dead while still 
alive!" Twenty times Julie just failed to poison 
herself with this regimen, and this notwithstanding 

^ t.e. Fahrenheit 13°= 19° of frost. This was in January 1776. 



:> 



go JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

the vigorous efforts of her friends — Guibert at their 
head. " In God's name, and for pity's sake," he 
adjures her, "if you have ever loved me, do not 
take that second dose ! I could not survive you. 
. . . Your words make me tremble ; this ttnknown 
cold in your heart. . . . Ah, your speech is 
Phaedra's." 

Worst of symptoms was Julie's appalling weak- 
ness. Notwithstanding her energy, she was now 
rarely able to leave her room even for most urgent 
affairs. " How could I ever get there," she says 
on one of these occasions, " when it is almost too 
far from my bed to my armchair ! You have no 
idea of my weakness. I labour merely over this 
letter, and my ears ring as though I am about 
to faint." These fits of exhaustion were occasion- 
ally followed by short-lived rallies when she was 
feverishly in need of motion, and grows suddenly 
hungry. " You do not know the pleasure of eating 
with passion ? Well, that is what I have been 
doing for twelve or fifteen days, and the doctors, 
who are ignorant barbarians, pretend that it is a 
bad symptom for my lungs. Could I only be quit 
of my cough, they might shake their heads as they 
please. . . . Never," she resumes again, " have I 
felt so full of vitality and strength. The silence 
and solitude of these nights give me an intensity 
of existence which cannot be described." These 
ephemeral improvements brought renewed hopes 
and plans for the future. At one time she was 
haunted by the idea of moving house in order to be 
nearer to Guibert, but put an end to this scheme 



HER LAST DAYS 391 

with feverish haste when she thought him too 
slow in his conduct of the scheme which she had 
entrusted to him. 

For the rest, though her body languished, her 
soul remained active and fervent as ever. Her 
door was necessarily closed to the world in general ; 
but though she received only a limited number of 
intimates, her graciousness and eloquence in con- 
versation were as remarkable as in the best days 
of her famous salon. "You would find her still 
interesting and animated despite her suffering and 
daily increasing weakness," wrote Morellet to Lord 
Shelburne ; " yet a miracle alone could snatch her 
from death." Illness, again, deadened her heart 
no more than her mind ; she loved Guibert with 
the same tenderness, the same ardour, and the 
same bitterness as always. With the same need of 
seeing him every day, she never tired of imploring 
his presence. " I ought to have the preference, 
because — it seems — one is always more attentive 
at parting : devotion does not then establish a pre- 
cedent. This is why the dying are always loved 
and mourned." She apologises, however, for the 
distressing spectacle that she must offer him. " I 
die of regret for the manner in which your evening 
is passed here, while everywhere else you are sur- 
rounded by pleasures of every kind. No sacrifices, 
my friend ! " 

These last words prove that, if passion still 
endures, jealousy, its sad corollary, has no more 
yielded its place before the approach of death. 
Thoughts of the two women who are to outlast 



392 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

her, the sometime mistress and the legitimate wife, 
poison her last moments, and she often attacks 
Guibert upon the subject of his many attachments, 
each claiming a turn. " What will you do to-morrow, 
my friend ? Not, of course, what you said that you 
would do, but what will please the first or the last 
comer ; and that is fair, for my place is between 
the two. How thankful I would be, might I exile 
myself from this trio before I die. Really, you 
would make them die of rage, should you tell them 
the truth. I — old, plain, cross, and dying — figure 
with all that is amiable and charming in the country ! 
My friend, your taste is bad. I am sorry for you ; 
for I go, but you will remain — bad." 

With this sad irony Julie now plays, instead of 
with the violence of earlier days. Their last quarrel 
took place in January, and was so terrible that 
Guibert, having regained his composure on the 
morrow, feared a fatal resolution as its close. " My 
friend, what a reply ! " he wrote with terror, " I 
found it awaiting my return, and I shudder at it. I 
am overcome by the horror of it, and by the fearful 
state in which I left you. You were pale as death 
. . . I your executioner! Ah, does one kill what 
one loves, what one cannot help loving } Will you 
have me to weep tears of blood for last night's 
scene ? Two words, I beg you, for I cannot 
breathe ! " From this day forward, moved both 
by fear and compassion, Guibert having vowed to 
control himself, and to accept everything without 
revolt, one can but admire the patience with which 
he kept his resolve. To bitter words and — still 



GUIBERT'S TROUBLE 393 

more painful — silent reproaches he now opposed 
only resignation, repentance, and gentleness. " I 
feel, I see, I may expect no more from you, my 
friend. Your heart knows only despair and the 
longing for death. You are indifferent to every- 
thing. Not one kind or gentle word for me has 
passed your lips for three weeks ; your will, more 
than your weakness, condemns me to this torture. 
Even yesterday you said that you wished me well, 
and you added, ' as well as you have done ill to me.' 
What a wish ! . . . You spoke of your health with 
an accent of despair, as who should upbraid me 
with it. ' Yes, I suffer, and you are my execu- 
tioner ; I die that I may no more vex your eyes,' 
you seemed to say." "You affected my soul in a 
terrible manner yesterday," he resumes, a few weeks 
later ; " your tears, your glance — dim, but never 
more expressive — will follow me for a long while. 
You scarcely looked at me, or you would have seen 
that I was almost as overcome as you yourself ; I 
suffered in your suffering, and I wept with you." 
Never before had he spoken with such evident 
warmth and truth. " I think of you ceaselessly ; I 
could kiss the threshold of your door, and I should 
die of sorrow could it not open to me." 

Guibert's continued entreaties and d'AIembert's 
prayers finally prevailed upon the invalid to summon 
other aid than that of " the doctor in my street " 
with whom she had, so far, been contented. They 
suggested Bordeu, the most famous practitioner of 
his time, and she resigned herself, " the dagger at 
her throat," and with no illusions as to the issue of 



394 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

the consultation. " I see Bordeu to please my 
friends," she wrote, " and the same friends will 
presently be groaning at the uselessness of his 
aid." Bordeu found that her lungs were attacked, 
and declared her condition to be almost hopeless. 
"Yet," Guibert reassures her, " he says that if the 
tension of your soul could be relaxed, if it no longer 
suffered, you would grow well." The new treat- 
ment brought no improvement, and her strength 
continued to decline rapidly. From April forwards 
she never left her bed, and the circle of her admitted 
friends grew more and more restricted. Besides 
Guibert, who came morning and evening, and 
d'Alembert, who never left her bedside, she received 
only Condorcet, Suard, and Madame Geoffrin, who, 
though just recovering from an attack of apoplexy, 
half-paralysed, and dying herself, daily dragged her 
feet to the bedside of her friend. Mademoiselle de 
Lespinasse was deeply touched by this devotion. 
" Ah, what a melancholy pleasure I take in seeing 
her ! Ah, it hurts me ; I believe her end is nearer 
than mine. I never could control my tears, and 
they overcame me while she was here. I was 
deeply grieved." Early in May, Suard, who was 
obliged to spend some weeks in England, bade Julie 
what he knew to be his last and heartbroken fare- 
well. " I do not pity her because she is dying," 
he wrote to his wife from England, *' for life to 
her has long amounted to no more than a pro- 
longation of suffering ; but I regret that she should 
so suffer, and that she must succumb to untimely 
death after long-continued pain and despair. This 



HIS ANXIETY 395 

thought haunts me, and darkens everything for 
me. 

Guibert's anxiety was so great that he could 
hardly bear to absent himself for a few hours 
when business called him to Versailles one May 
day. He returned in the evening, indeed, to learn 
that the invalid had almost died during the day, 
and to find a note, entitled her " last testament," 
each word of which filled him with terror and 
repentance. "Your last testament! This word 
makes me tremble. Alas ! your letter bears the 
stamp of death ; these sound like the words of the 
dying. ... I love you, my friend, I love you ; 
these are words from the depth of my soul ; my 
sobs would interrupt them if you were here." 
Here, in his turn, Guibert besought her pity : 
" Your letter crushes me, but really I am not 
so culpable as you imagine. I have always loved 
you, 1 have loved you from the first moment that 
we met. You are dearer to me than anything else 
in the world. Yes — I must utter it, for I have 
searched my heart, and I see that it is my inner- 
most feeling — might I choose between your death 
and that of any other one person in the world, I 
could not hesitate." 

Time was when such protestations and heart- 
felt grief would have intoxicated Julie with joy, 
but the sufferings of her pain-racked body had 
at last reached the springs of her being, and her 
voice could only murmur faint thanks. " Truly, I 
have not strength to hold my pen. All my faculties 
are occupied with suffering. I have reached that 



396 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

term of life when it is almost as painful to die as 
to live. I fear pain too much ; the sorrow in my 
soul has exhausted all my strength. My friend, 
stand by me ; but do not suffer, for that were 
indeed the worse pain of all." 

Mademoiselle de Lespinasse retained her in- 
tense sensibility to the end, and no attentions were 
lost upon her. Thus, when one evening she was 
in worse case than usual, Guibert sent twice for news 
during the same night, and this interest touched 
her to the point of tears. " But that is exactly 
like you ! To send twice in one night ! Ah, best 
and lightest of men ! Yes, be calm, I beg of you, 
or you will but increase my suffering ; yours hurts 
me, oh so badly ! " " You beg me to be calm, and 
you are dying ! " he replies, beside himself. " Your 
day has been dreadful, and your night is going to 
be dreadful. . . . See a doctor ; take milk, since 
you feel that it may relieve you. I am sending 
again to inquire after you. It will be half-past 
eleven or twelve when your answer reaches me. 
I shall be awake and in tears. . . . Ah, my friend, 
why will you not see the depths of my heart ? 
You would be touched— you would not allow your- 
self to die ! " 

This mournful dialogfue continued until the last 
moment. Letters were now, indeed, their only 
means of communication, for since her last crisis 
Julie would not permit Guibert to enter her room. 
Madame de la Ferte Imbault gives us the reason 
for this interdiction. "Her features have been 
twisted and distorted by convulsions, so as to 



HER FAREWELLS 397 

entirely disfigure her face, and with a last flicker 
of coquetry, she is reluctant to leave this picture 
of herself with the one man for whose memory 
of her she is concerned." Julie, however, com- 
pensates him for this rigour by frequent notes, 
in which she gives free play to her great tender- 
ness. One written on the afternoon of May i ith 
was doubtless intended to be her last farewell. It 
breathes a gentle serenity without trace of bitter- 
ness, and already one seems to feel in it the peace 
of the grave. "You are too good, too kind, my 
friend ; you would revive and sustain a soul which 
is at last succumbing to its burthen of pain. I 
appreciate what you offer me, but I no longer 
deserve it. There was a time when to be loved 
by you was the utmost I could desire. Then I 
should have sought to live ; to-day I seek only to 
die. ... I would like to know your future. I 
would like to know whether you will be happy in 
your surroundings ; you will never be very unhappy 
in your character or your feelings. . . . Farewell, 
my friend. If I were to return to life, I should 
still like to spend it in loving you ; but there is 
no longer time." 

A respite of a few days yet remained to her, 
and these Julie used to complete the regulation 
of her affairs. Her will appointed d'Alembert as 
executor of her last wishes, and she wrote him a 
letter on the i6th of May, to be opened after her 
death. " I owe you everything ; I am so sure 
of your friendship, that I want to use what strength 
is left me in enduring a life of which I no longer 



398 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

hope or fear anything. My misery is without re- 
source as it is without consolation, but I still feel 
that I ought to make an effort to prolong days 
that are abhorrent to me. ..." Here follow direc- 
tions for the disposal of her manuscripts and private 
papers, and a codicil containing legacies to her 
friends. "Farewell, my friend," she concludes; 
"believe that death brings to me the peace for 
which I could not hope in life. Always treasure 
the memory of Monsieur de Mora as the most 
virtuous, the most affectionate, and the most unfor- 
tunate of men. . . . Good-bye ! My heart and my 
soul are deadened by despair, and I have lost the 
power of expressing any other feeling. My death 
is but the proof of the way in which I have loved 
Monsieur de Mora ; his proved but too well how 
much more he responded to my tenderness than 
ever you imagined. Alas ! when you read this, 
I shall be freed from the burthen which is crushing 
me. . . . Good-bye, my friend, for ever." 

The Marquis de Vichy, summoned by a pressing 
message to his sister's death-bed, arrived during this 
week, and remained with her to the end. He was 
a sincere believer and true Christian, and undertook, 
in defiance of the rest of her friends, to win back 
this soul so long alienated from the Church. He 
has himself testified to his success : "I saw her 
draw her last breath," he wrote to Count d'Albon, 
"and I am happy to say that I persuaded her to 
take all the sacraments, in spite of, and in the face 
of, the entire Encyclopaedia. She died in a Chris- 
tian spirit." Divine love did not, however, occupy 



HER DEATH 399 

Julie's heart to the exclusion of profane love, for 
Guibert engrossed her thoughts until the last hour. 
Denied her bedside by strict orders, he spent his 
days in d'Alembert's room, asking for her every 
minute, imploring that all the doctors in Paris should 
be consulted, sometimes choked with tears, at others 
plunged in mute despair. Report of his misery 
pained Julie terribly, and seemed to drag her back, 
in spite of herself, to the life which she was depart- 
ing. In her feverish impatience to die, she even 
wished herself unloved, so that she might go the 
more easily. 

Julie de Lespinasse was still under the influence 
of this idea when, at four o'clock in the afternoon 
of Tuesday the twenty-first of May, she asked for 
writing materials, and, lifting her hand by a supreme 
effort, traced a few feeble, but still legible, words to 
Guibert. Through this short note, last effort of 
her pen, there vibrates, amidst the obscurities of her 
already wavering thought, a last echo of that passion 
which won her an hour of joy and two years of 
torture. " My friend, I love you ! This is a seda- 
tive to benumb my pain. You can easily change it 
to poison, and of all poisons this will be the speediest 
and most deadly. Alas ! living is so very painful 
that I am ready to implore your pity and generosity 
in yielding me this assistance. It would end a 
painful struggle, which else will soon weigh upon 
your soul. Friend, set my soul at rest ! For pity, 
be cruel this once. I die. Farewell ! " 

Having written and sealed this note, she called 
d'Alembert, and in a few indistinct words, more 



400 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

breathed than articulated, humbly thanked him for 
his kindness and long devotion, and begged his 
pardon for her ingratitude. This language, and 
her affectionate tone, so long unheard by him, em- 
boldened him to question her, and to try to learn 
at last the secret of her inexplicable behaviour. 
He asked, however, too late ; she no longer had 
strength " either to speak or to hear," and they 
could only mingle tears. Towards night she was 
for a long while unconscious, and, being revived with 
cordials, opened her eyes and raised herself to ask, 
with an air of surprise : " Am I still alive ? " These 
were her last words. At two o'clock that night her 
light breathing stopped, and her sad and ardent 
heart ceased to beat and to suffer. 

The funeral and burial took place on the next 
day, May 23rd, at the church of Saint-Sulpice. 
Her will, dated in February, stated that she desired 
to be buried " like the poor, without being exposed 
to view in the porch." Her wish was respected, 
and the ceremony was as simple as it was brief. 
D'Alembert and Condorcet, who were considered 
her most intimate friends, were the chief mourners ; 
while Guibert, lost in the crowd, seemed over- 
whelmed with sorrow. Yet, however sincere and 
profound his grief, the despairing lover did not kill 
the man of letters in him. That same night he 
took his pen, and did not rise until he had finished 
the long composition — a little diffuse and high-flown 
in places, but otherwise full of interest, of eloquence, 
and of fire — subsequently published under the title 
n Eloge d Eliza. 



D'ALEMBERT DISILLUSIONED 401 

D' Alembert was, unfortunately, absorbed in other 
cares. Julie had put upon him the duty of return- 
ing certain letters to their writers ; he was to burn 
all others. Thus sadly occupied, he found a manu- 
script recital of her love for Mora, and before he 
could cast it on the fire, his eye had perused a few 
lines, and the roll slipped from his fingers. Julie, 
then, had loved Mora ; had loved him with un- 
equalled tenderness and with all the strength of her 
being, with all her mind as with all her soul ! And 
he, d' Alembert, all unsuspecting, had ceased " eight 
years ago " to be, as he says, " the first object of her 
affections." To complete his sorrow, among all the 
packages of letters which he was charged to destroy, 
there was " in this immense multitude of letters not 
a single one" from his pen. He was seized by 
a terrible idea, which possessed him for several 
months — that for a long time Julie had not loved 
him, perhaps had never loved him ; that, at any 
rate, he ranked only among the last in her affections, 
after " ten or twelve others," whom she indisputably 
preferred to him. All his tenderness, all his care 
and his sacrifices, he had lavished in vain. For her 
he had lost "sixteen years of his life." 

At first, indignation almost prevailed over his 
grief. Bewildered and suffocated with anger, and 
irresistibly in need of relieving his mind and open- 
ing his heart to one who could sympathise with his 
trouble, a supreme irony directed his choice to 
Guibert. This deplorable accident apart, the letter 
is affecting in its expression of anguish, of decep- 
tion, and of melancholy bitterness. "... As to 

2 c 



402 JULIE DE LESPINASSE 

my ungrateful and unhappy friend — the friend of 
all the world but me — what would I not give, 
Monsieur, that your friendship for her and for 
myself were not mistaken when you give me these 
assurances of her feelings ! But, unhappily for me, 
unhappily even for her memory, the public voice 
and yours do not accord. I even fear that you will 
side with the world if I ever have the strength to 
inform you of the thousand details, unknown to 
the public as to you, which but too clearly prove 
that their voice is right. . . . Pity me. Monsieur, 
that I am forsaken ; pity my misery, and the hideous 
emptiness of the rest of my life ! I loved her with 
a tenderness which leaves me with a need of loving ; 
I have never been first in her affections ; I have 
lost sixteen years of my life, and I am sixty years 
old. Why can I not die in writing these sad words, 
and why can they not be graven upon my tomb ! . . . 
Alas ! she died persuaded that * her death would 
be a relief to me.' This she said to me, two days 
before her death. Farewell, Monsieur. I am 
choked, and may write no more ! Retain your 
friendship for me ; it would be my consolation, were 
I capable of being consoled. But all that was mine 
is lost, and nothing remains for me but to die." 

Time healed the philosopher's wrath, and filled 
its empty place with sorrow. But neither the con- 
solations of his friends, the sympathy of the public, 
nor the distraction of work could overcome his sad- 
ness. " He is badly hit," Condorcet wrote to Turgot. 
" My whole hope for him now is that his life 
may prove bearable." In course of time, however. 



HIS RESIGNATION 403 

d'Alembert again went into society, and frequented 
certain salons. But having dazzled auditors by the 
brilliancy of his conversation, back he would retreat 
to the hideous loneliness, in which he compared 
himself to the blind, who are " profoundly sad when 
alone, but are thought gay by society because the 
moment when they are with others is to them the 
only one that may be borne." Therefore, with 
profound melancholy, but with a peaceful heart, the 
sanctuary of his memory was from henceforth his 
shrine wherein to invoke her who, despite her 
every fault, was for so many years the charm, the 
interest, and the sweetness of his life. For us — 
better informed than he as to ''his ungrateful and 
unhappy friend " — who, day by day, have followed 
the phases of this tortured existence and penetrated 
the deep recesses of her consciousness — shall we 
refuse her the indulgence ever ready for those 
whose inmost souls we know, and whom it is per- 
mitted us to judge by their feelings rather than by 
their actions? Surely she did indeed sin, yet for 
that sin she paid full measure ; and if she suffered 
greatly, so also did she greatly jive. Judging not, (f ( ^ i 
therefore, neither let us pity. " ' 



THE END 



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